WILEY  AND  PUTNAM'S 

LIBRARY  OF 

AMERICAN    BOOKS 


PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE   AND  ART, 

PART   I. 


PAPERS 


ON 


LITERATURE    AND    ART. 


S.   MARGARET    FULLER, 

AUTHOR   OF    UA   SUMMER   ON   THK   LAKES;"    "  WOMAN   IN   THE   NINETEENTH 
CENTURY,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


NEW  YORK : 
WILEY  AND  PUTNAM,  161  BROADWAY. 

1846. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 
WILEY    AND    PUTNAM, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


R.  CRAIGHKAD'S  POWER  PRESS,  T.  B.  SMITH,  STERKOTYPER, 

112  FULTON  STREET.  216  WILLIAM  STREET. 


CONTENTS.^/}/ /y/ 


PAOB. 

A  SHORT  ESSAY  ON  CRITICS 1 

A  DIALOGUE 9 

THE  Two  HERBERTS.      .                          15 

THE  PROSE  WORKS  OF  MILTON 35 

THE  LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 43 

MODERN  BRITISH  POETS 58 

THE  MODERN  DRAMA 100 

DIALOGUE,  CONTAINING  SUNDRY  GLOSSES  ON  POETIC  TEXTS.   .        .        .  151 


PREFACE. 


IN  the  original  plan  for  publishing  a  selection  from  my 
essays  in  different  kinds  which  have  appeared  in  periodicals, 
I  had  aimed  at  more  completeness  of  arrangement  than  has 
been  attained  in  these  two  volumes.  Selections  had  been 
made  from  essays  on  English  literature,  on  Continental  and 
American  literature,  and  on  Art.  I  had  wished,  beside,  for 
a  department  in  which  to  insert  sketches  of  a  miscellaneous 
character,  in  prose  and  verse. 

It  was  proposed,  in  the  critical  pieces,  to  retain  the  extracts 
with  which  they  were  originally  adorned,  as  this  would  give 
them  far  more  harmony  and  interest  for  the  general  reader. 

The  translation,  however,  of  the  matter  from  a  more 
crowded  page  to  its  present  form  has  made  such  a  differ 
ence,  that  I  have  been  obliged  to  drop  most  of  the  extracts 
from  several  of  the  pieces.  Moreover,  in  approaching  the 
end  of  the  first  number,  I  found  myself  obliged  to  omit 
more  than  half  the  essays  I  had  proposed  on  the  subject  of 
English  literature,  the  greater  part  of  those  on  Art,  and 
those  on  Continental  literature  and  of  a  miscellaneous 
kind  entirely.  I  find,  indeed,  that  the  matter  which  I  had 


VI  PREFACE. 


supposed  could  be  comprised  in  two  of  these  numbers  would 
fill  six  or  eight. 

Had  I  been  earlier  aware  of  this,  I  should  have  made  a 
different  selection,  and  one  which  would  do  more  justice  to 
the  range  and  variety  of  subjects  which  have  been  before 
my  mind  during  the  ten  years  that,  in  the  intervals  allowed 
me  by  other  engagements,  I  have  written  for  the  public. 

To  those  of  my  friends,  who  have  often  expressed  a  wish 
that  I  "  could  find  time  to  write,"  it  will  be  a  satisfaction  to 
know  that,  though  the  last  twenty  months  is  the  first  period 
in  my  life  when  it  has  been  permitted  me  to  make  my  pen 
my  chief  means  of  expressing  my  thoughts,  yet  I  have 
written  enough,  if  what  is  afloat,  and  what  lies  hid  in  man 
uscript,  were  put  together,  to  make  a  little  library,  quite 
large  enough  to  exhaust  the  patience  of  the  collector,  if  not 
of  the  reader.  Should  I  do  no  more,  I  have  at  least  sent 
my  share  of  paper  missives  through  the  world. 

The  present  selection  contains  some  of  my  earliest  and 
some  of  my  latest  expressions.  I  have  not  put  dates  to  any 
of  the  pieces,  though,  in  the  earlier,  I  see  much  crudity, 
which  I  seem  to  have  outgrown  now,  just  as  I  hope  I  shall 
think  ten  years  hence  of  what  I  write  to-day.  But  I  find 
an  identity  in  the  main  views  and  ideas,  a  substantial  har 
mony  among  these  pieces,  and  I  think  those  who  have 
been  interested  in  my  mind  at  all,  will  take  some  pleasure 
in  reading  the  youngest  and  crudest  of  these  pieces,  and 
will  readily  disown  for  me  what  I  would  myself  disown. 

Should  these  volumes  meet  with  a  kind  reception,  a  more 


PREFACE.  Vll 


complete  selection  from  my  miscellanies  will  be  offered  to 
the  public  in  due  time.  Should  these  not  seem  to  be  objects 
of  interest  I  shall  take  the  hint,  and  consign  the  rest  to  the 
peaceful  seclusion  of  the  garret. 

I  regret  omitting  some  pieces  explanatory  of  foreign 
authors,  that  would  have  more  interest  now  than  when 
those  authors  become,  as  I  hope  they  will,  familiar 
friends  to  the  youth  of  my  country.  It  has  been  one 
great  object  of  my  life  to  introduce  here  the  works  of 
those  great  geniuses,  the  flower  and  fruit  of  a  higher  state 
of  development,  which  might  give  the  young  who  are  soon 
to  constitute  the  state,  a  higher  standard  in  thought  and  ac 
tion  than  would  be  demanded  of  them  by  their  own  time. 
I  have  hoped  that,  by  being  thus  raised  above  their  native 
sphere,  they  would  become  its  instructors  and  the  faithful 
stewards  of  its  best  riches,  not  its  tools  or  slaves.  I  feel 
with  satisfaction  that  I  have  done  a  good  deal  to  extend  the 
influence  of  the  great  minds  of  Germany  and  Italy  among 
my  compatriots.  Of  our  English  contemporaries,  as  yet  but 
partially  known  here,  I  have  written  notices  of  Milnes, 
Landor,  and  Julius  Hare,  which  I  regret  being  obliged  to 
omit,  as  these  writers  are  yet  but  little  known.  Bailey  and 
Tennyson  have  now  a  fair  chance  of  circulation,  therefore 
my  notices  may  sleep  with  the  occasion  that  gave  them 
birth.  Tennyson,  especially,  needs  no  usher.  He  has  only 
to  be  heard  to  command  the  audience  of  that  "  melodious 
thunder." 

Of  the  essays  in  the  second  volume,  that  on  American  lit- 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

erature  is  the  only  one,  which  has  not,  before,  appeared  in 
print.  It  is  a  very  imperfect  sketch  ;  the  theme  was  great 
and  difficult,  the  time  to  be  spared  for  its  consideration  was 
brief.  It  is,  however,  written  with  sincere  and  earnest  feel 
ings,  and  from  a  mind  that  cares  for  nothing  but  what  is 
permanent  and  essential.  It  should,  then,  have  some  merit, 
if  only  in  the  power  of  suggestion.  A  year  or  two  hence,  I 
hope  to  have  more  to  say  upon  this  topic,  or  the  interests 
it  represents,  and  to  speak  with  more  ripeness  both  as  to  the 
matter  and  the  form. 

S.  M.  F. 

New  York,  July,  1846. 


PAPERS  ON   LITERATURE   AND  ART, 


A  SHORT  ESSAY  ON  CRITICS. 

AN  essay  on  Criticism  were  a  serious  matter  ;  for,  though  this 
age  be  emphatically  critical,  the  writer  would  still  find  it  neces 
sary  to  investigate  the  laws  of  criticism  as  a  science,  to  settle  its 
conditions  as  an  art.  Essays,  entitled  critical,  are  epistles  ad 
dressed  to  the  public,  through  which  the  mind  of  the  recluse  re 
lieves  itself  of  its  impressions.  Of  these  the  only  law  is, 
"  Speak  the  best  word  that  is  in  thee."  Or  they  are  regular  ar 
ticles  got  up  to  order  by  the  literary  hack  writer,  for  the  literary 
mart,  and  the  only  law  is  to  make  them  plausible.  There  is  not 
yet  deliberate  recognition  of  a  standard  of  criticism,  though  we 
hope  the  always  strengthening  league  of  the  republic  of  letters 
must  ere  long  settle  laws  on  which  its  Amphictyonic  council  may 
act.  Meanwhile  let  us  not  venture  to  write  on  criticism,  but,  by 
classifying  the  critics,  imply  our  hopes  and  thereby  our  thoughts. 

First,  there  are  the  subjective  class,  (to  make  use  of  a  conve 
nient  term,  introduced  by  our  German  benefactors.)  These  are 
persons  to  whom  writing  is  no  sacred,  no  reverend  employment. 
They  are  not  driven  to  consider,  not  forced  upon  investigation  by 
the  fact,  that  they  are  deliberately  giving  their  thoughts  an  inde 
pendent  existence,  and  that  it  may  live  to  others  when  dead  to 
them.  They  know  no  agonies  of  conscientious  research,  no  tim 
idities  of  self-respect.  They  see  no  ideal  beyond  the  present 
hour,  which  makes  its  mood  an  uncertain  tenure.  How  things 

2 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


affect  them  now  they  know  ;  let  the  future,  let  the  whole  take 
care  of  itself.  They  state  their  impressions  as  they  rise,  of 
other  men's  spoken,  written,  or  acted  thoughts.  They  never 
dream  of  going  out  of  themselves  to  seek  the  motive,  to  trace  the 
law  of  another  nature.  They  never  dream  that  there  are  statures 
which  cannot  be  measured  from  their  point  of  view.  They  love, 
they  like,  or  they  hate ;  the  book  is  detestable,  immoral,  absurd, 
or  admirable,  noble,  of  a  most  approved  scope  ; — these  statements 
they  make  with  authority,  as  those  who  bear  the  evangel  of  pure 
taste  and  accurate  judgment,  and  need  be  tried  before  no  human 
synod.  To  them  it  seems  that  their  present  position  commands 
the  universe. 

Thus  the  essays  on  the  works  of  others,  which  are  called  criti 
cisms,  are  often,  in  fact,  mere  records  of  impressions.  To  judge 
of  their  value  you  must  know  where  the  man  was  brought  up, 
under  what  influences, — his  nation,  his  church,  his  family  even. 
He  himself  has  never  attempted  to  estimate  the  value  of  these 
circumstances,  and  find  a  law  or  raise  a  standard  above  all  cir 
cumstances,  permanent  against  all  influence.  He  is  content  to 
be  the  creature  of  his  place,  and  to  represent  it  by  his  spoken 
and  written  word.  He  takes  the  same  ground  with  a  savage, 
who  does  not  hesitate  to  say  of  the  product  of  a  civilization  on 
which  he  could  not  stand,  "  It  is  bad,"  or  "  It  is  good." 

The  value  of  such  comments  is  merely  reflex.  They  charac 
terize  the  critic.  They  give  an  idea  of  certain  influences  on  a 
certain  act  of  men  in  a  certain  time  or  place.  Their  absolute, 
essential  value  is  nothing.  The  long  review,  the  eloquent  arti 
cle  by  the  man  of  the  nineteenth  century,  are  of  no  value  by 
themselves  considered,  but  only  as  samples  of  their  kind.  The 
writers  were  content  to  tell  what  they  felt,  to  praise  or  to  de 
nounce  without  needing  to  convince  us  or  themselves.  They 
sought  not  the  divine  truths  of  philosophy,  and  she  proffers  them 
not  if  unsought. 


A  SHORT  ESSAY  ON  CRITICS. 


Then  there  are  the  apprehensive.  These  can  go  out  of  them 
selves  and  enter  fully  into  a  foreign  existence.  They  breathe  its 
life ;  they  live  in  its  law  •  they  tell  what  it  meant,  and  why  it  so 
expressed  its  meaning.  They  reproduce  the  work  of  which  they 
speak,  and  make  it  better  known  to  us  in  so  far  as  two  statements 
are  better  than  one.  There  are  beautiful  specimens  in  this  kind. 
They  are  pleasing  to  us  as  bearing  witness  of  the  genial  sympa 
thies  of  nature.  They  have  the  ready  grace  of  love  with  some 
what  of  the  dignity  of  disinterested  friendship.  They  some 
times  give  more  pleasure  than  the  original  production  of  which 
they  treat,  as  melodies  will  sometimes  ring  sweetlier  in  the  echo. 
Besides  there  is  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  a  true  response  ;  it  is  the 
assurance  of  equipoise  in  the  universe.  These,  if  not  true  crit 
ics,  come  nearer  the  standard  than  the  subjective  class,  and  the 
value  of  their  work  is  ideal  as  well  as  historical. 

Then  there  are  the  comprehensive,  who  must  also  be  appre 
hensive.  They  enter  into  the  nature  of  another  being  and  judge 
his  work  by  its  own  law.  But  having  done  so,  having  ascer 
tained  his  design  and  the  degree  of  his  success  in  fulfilling  it, 
thus  measuring  his  judgment,  his  energy,  and  skill,  they  do  also 
know  how  to  put  that  aim  in  its  place,  and  how  to  estimate  its  re 
lations.  And  this  the  critic  can  only  do  who  perceives  the  anal 
ogies  of  the  universe,  and  how  they  are  regulated  by  an  absolute, 
invariable  principle.  He  can  see  how  far  that  work  expresses 
this  principle,  as  well  as  how  far  it  is  excellent  in  its  details. 
Sustained  by  a  principle,  such  as  can  be  girt  within  no  rule,  no 
formula,  he  can  walk  around  the  work,  he  can  stand  above  it,  he 
can  uplift  it,  and  try  its  weight.  Finally,  he  is  worthy  to 
judge  it. 

Critics  are  poets  cut  down,  says  some  one  by  way  of  jeer ;  but, 
in  truth,  they  are  men  with  the  poetical  temperament  to  appre 
hend,  with  the  philosophical  tendency  to  investigate.  The  maker 
is  divine  ;  the  critic  sees  this  divine,  but  brings  it  down  to  hu- 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


manity  by  the  analytic  process.  The  critic  is  the  historian  who 
records  the  order  of  creation.  In  vain  for  the  maker,  who  knows 
without  learning  it,  but  not  in  vain  for  the  mind  of  his  race. 

The  critic  is  beneath  the  maker,  but  is  his  needed  friend. 
What  tongue  could  speak  but  to  an  intelligent  ear,  and  every 
noble  work  demands  its  critic.  The  richer  the  work,  the  more 
severe  should  be  its  critic  ;  the  larger  its  scope,  the  more  com 
prehensive  must  be  his  power  of  scrutiny.  The  critic  is  not  a 
base  caviller,  but  the  younger  brother  of  genius.  Next  to  in 
vention  is  the  power  of  interpreting  invention  ;  next  to  beauty 
the  power  of  appreciating  beauty. 

And  of  making  others  appreciate  it ;  for  the  universe  is  a 
scale  of  infinite  gradation,  and,  below  the  very  highest,  every 
step  is  explanation  down  to  the  lowest.  Religion,  in  the  two 
modulations  of  poetry  and  music,  descends  through  an  infinity 
of  waves  to  the  lowest  abysses  of  human  nature.  Nature  is  the 
literature  and  art  of  the  divine  mind  ;  human  literature  and  art 
the  criticism  on  that ;  and  they,  too,  find  their  criticism  within 
their  own  sphere. 

The  critic,  then,  should  be  not  merely  a  poet,  not  merely  a 
philosopher,  not  merely  an  observer,  but  tempered  of  all  three. 
If  he  criticise  the  poem,  he  must  want  nothing  of  what  constitutes 
the  poet,  except  the  power  of  creating  forms  and  speaking  in 
music.  He  must  have  as  good  an  eye  and  as  fine  a  sense  ;  but 
if  he  had  as  fine  an  organ  for  expression  also,  he  would  make 
the  poem  instead  of  judging  it.  He  must  be  inspired  by  the  phi 
losopher's  spirit  of  inquiry  and  need  of  generalization,  but  he 
must  not  be  constrained  by  the  hard  cemented  masonry  of  method 
to  which  philosophers  are  prone.  And  he  must  have  the  organic 
acuteness  of  the  observer,  with  a  love  of  ideal  perfection,  which 
forbids  him  to  be  content  with  mere  beauty  of  details  in  the 
work  or  the  comment  upon  the  work. 

There  are  persons  who  maintain,  that  there  is  no  legitimate 


A  SHORT  ESSAY  ON  CRITICS. 


criticism,  except  the  reproductive;  that  we  have  only  to  say 
what  the  work  is  or  is  to  us,  never  what  it  is  not.  But  the  mo 
ment  we  look  for  a  principle,  we  feel  the  need  of  a  criterion,  of 
a  standard  ;  and  then  we  say  what  the  work  is  not,  as  well  as 
what  it  is ;  and  this  is  as  healthy  though  not  as  grateful  and 
gracious  an  operation  of  the  mind  as  the  other.  We  do  not  seek 
to  degrade  but  to  classify  an  object  by  stating  what  it  is  not.  We 
detach  the  part  from  the  whole,  lest  it  stand  between  us  and  the 
whole.  When  we  have  ascertained  in  what  degree  it  manifests 
the  whole,  we  may  safely  restore  it  to  its  place,  and  love  or  ad 
mire  it  there  ever  after. 

The  use  of  criticism,  in  periodical  writing  is  to  sift,  not  to 
stamp  a  work.  Yet  should  they  not  be  "  sieves  and  drainers  for 
the  use  of  luxurious  readers,"  but  for  the  use  of  earnest  in 
quirers,  giving  voice  and  being  to  their  objections,  as  well  as 
stimulus  to  their  sympathies.  But  the  critic  must  not  be  an  in 
fallible  adviser  to  his  reader.  He  must  not  tell  him  what  books 
are  not  worth  reading,  or  what  must  be  thought  of  them  when 
read,  but  what  he  read  in  them.  Wo  to  that  coterie  where  some 
critic  sits  despotic,  intrenched  behind  the  infallible  "  We."  Wo 
to  that  oracle  who  has  infused  such  soft  sleepiness,  such  a  gentle 
dulness  into  his  atmosphere,  that  when  he  opes  his  lips  no  dog 
will  bark.  It  is  this  attempt  at  dictatorship  in  the  reviewers,  and 
the  indolent  acquiescence  of  their  readers,  that  has  brought  them 
into  disrepute.  With  such  fairness  did  they  make  out  their 
statements,  with  such  dignity  did  they  utter  their  verdicts,  that 
the  poor  reader  grew  all  too  submissive.  He  learned  his  lesson 
with  such  docility,  that  the  greater  part  of  what  will  be  said  at 
any  public  or  private  meeting  can  be  foretold  by  any  one  who  has 
read  the  leading  periodical  works  for  twenty  years  back.  Schol 
ars  sneer  at  and  would  fain  dispense  with  them  altogether ;  and 
the  public,  grown  lazy  and  helpless  by  this  constant  use  of  props 
and  stays,  can  now  scarce  brace  itself  even  to  get  through  a 


PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


magazine  article,  but  reads  in  the  daily  paper  laid  beside  the 
breakfast  plate  a  short  notice  of  the  last  number  of  the  long  es 
tablished  and  popular  review,  and  thereupon  passes  its  judgment 
and  is  content. 

Then  the  partisan  spirit  of  many  of  these  journals  has  made  it 
unsafe  to  rely  upon  them  as  guide-books  and  expurgatory  indexes. 
They  could  not  be  content  merely  to  stimulate  and  suggest 
thought,  they  have  at  last  become  powerless  to  supersede  it. 

From  these  causes  and  causes  like  these,  the  journals  have  lost 
much  of  their  influence.  There  is  a  languid  feeling  about  them, 
an  inclination  to  suspect  the  justice  of  their  verdicts,  the  value 
of  their  criticisms.  But  their  golden  age  cannot  be  quite  past. 
They  afford  too  convenient  a  vehicle  for  the  transmission  of 
knowledge  ;  they  are  too  natural  a  feature  of  our  time  to  have 
done  all  their  work  yet.  Surely  they  may  be  redeemed  from 
their  abuses,  they  may  be  turned  to  their  true  uses.  But  how  ? 

It  were  easy  to  say  what  they  should  not  do.  They  should 
not  have  an  object  to  carry  or  a  cause  to  advocate,  which  obliges 
them  either  to  reject  all  writings  which  wear  the  distinctive 
traits  of  individual  life,  or  to  file  away  what  does  not  suit  them, 
till  the  essay,  made  true  to  their  design,  is  made  false  to  the 
mind  of  the  writer.  An  external  consistency  is  thus  produced, 
at  the  expense  of  all  salient  thought,  all  genuine  emotion  of  life, 
in  short,  and  all  living  influence.  Their  purpose  may  be  of  va 
lue,  but  by  such  means  was  no  valuable  purpose  ever  furthered 
long.  There  are  those,  who  have  with  the  best  intention  pursued 
this  system  of  trimming  and  adaptation,  and  thought  it  well 
and  best  to 

"  Deceive  their  country  for  their  country's  good." 

But  their  country  cannot  long  be  so  governed.  It  misses  the 
pure,  the  full  tone  of  truth  ;  it  perceives  that  the  voice  is  modu 
lated  to  coax,  to  persuade,  and  it  turns  from  the  judicious  man  of 


A   SHORT   ESSAY  ON  CRITICS. 


the  world,  calculating  the  effect  to  be  produced  by  each  of  his 
smooth  sentences,  to  some  earnest  voice  which  is  uttering  thoughts, 
crude,  rash,  ill-arranged  it  may  be,  but  true  to  one  human  breast, 
and  uttered  in  full  faith,  that  the  God  of  Truth  will  guide  them 
aright. 

And  here,  it  seems  to  me,  has  been  the  greatest  mistake  in  the 
conduct  of  these  journals.  A  smooth  monotony  has  been  at 
tained,  an  uniformity  of  tone,  so  that  from  the  title  of  a  journal 
you  can  infer  the  tenor  of  all  its  chapters.  But  nature  is  ever 
various,  ever  new,  and  so  should  be  her  daughters,  art  and  lite 
rature.  We  do  not  want  merely  a  polite  response  to  what  we 
thought  before,  but  by  the  freshness  of  thought  in  other  minds  to 
have  new  thought  awakened  in  our  own.  We  do  not  want  stores 
of  information  only,  but  to  be  roused  to  digest  these  into  knowl 
edge.  Able  and  experienced  men  write  for  us,  and  we  would 
know  what  they  think,  as  they  think  it  not  for  us  but  for  them 
selves.  We  would  live  with  them,  rather  than  be  taught  by 
them  how  to  live  ;  we  would  catch  the  contagion  of  their  mental 
activity,  rather  than  have  them  direct  us  how  to  regulate  our 
own.  In  books,  in  reviews,  in  the  senate,  in  the  pulpit,  we  wish 
to  meet  thinking  men,  not  schoolmasters  or  pleaders.  We  wish 
that  they  should  do  full  justice  to  their  own  view,  but  also  that 
they  should  be  frank  with  us,  and,  if  now  our  superiors,  treat  us 
as  if  we  might  some  time  rise  to  be  their  equals.  It  is  this  true 
manliness,  this  firmness  in  his  own  position,  and  this  power  of  ap 
preciating  the  position  of  others,  that  alone  can  make  the  critic 
our  companion  and  friend.  We  would  converse  with  him,  se 
cure  that  he  will  tell  us  all  his  thought,  and  speak  as  man  to 
man.  But  if  he  adapts  his  work  to  us,  if  he  stifles  what  is  dis 
tinctively  his,  if  he  shows  himself  either  arrogant  or  mean,  or, 
above  all,  if  he  wants  faith  in  the  healthy  action  of  free  thought, 
and  the  safety  of  pure  motive,  we  will  not  talk  with  him,  for  we 
cannot  confide  in  him.  We  will  go  to  the  critic  who  trusts  Genius 


8  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

and  trusts  us,  who  knows  that  all  good  writing  must  be  sponta 
neous,  and  who  will  write  out  the  bill  of  fare  for  the  public  as  he 
read  it  for  himself, — 

"  Forgetting  vulgar  rules,  with  spirit  free 
To  judge  each  author  by  his  own  intent, 
Nor  think  one  standard  for  all  minds  is  meant." 

Such  an  one  will  not  disturb  us  with  personalities,  with  sectarian 
prejudices,  or  an  undue  vehemence  in  favour  of  petty  plans  or 
temporary  objects.  Neither  will  he  disgust  us  by  smooth  obse 
quious  flatteries  and  an  inexpressive,  lifeless  gentleness.  He 
will  be  free  and  make  free  from  the  mechanical  and  distorting 
influences  we  hear  complained  of  on  every  side.  He  will  teach 
us  to  love  wisely  what  we  before  loved  well,  for  he  knows  the 
difference  between  censoriousness  and  discernment,  infatuation 
and  reverence ;  and  while  delighting  in  the  genial  melodies  of 
Pan,  can  perceive,  should  Apollo  bring  his  lyre  into  audience, 
that  there  may  be  strains  more  divine  than  those  of  his  native 
groves. 


CRITICISM  ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


A  DIALOGUE. 


POET.    CRITIC. 

POET.  Approach  me  not,  man  of  cold,  steadfast  eye  and  com- 
pressed  lips.  At  thy  coming  nature  shrouds  herself  in  dull 
mist ;  fain  would  she  hide  her  sighs  and  smiles,  her  buds  and 
fruits  even  in  a  veil  of  snow.  For  thy  unkindly  breath,  as  it 
pierces  her  mystery,  destroys  its  creative  power.  The  birds 
draw  back  into  their  nests,  the  sunset  hues  into  their  clouds, 
when  you  are  seen  in  the  distance  with  your  tablets  all  ready  to 
write  them  into  prose. 

CRITIC.  O  my  brother,  my  benefactor,  do  not  thus  repel  me. 
Interpret  me  rather  to  our  common  mother ;  let  her  not  avert  her 
eyes  from  a  younger  child.  I  know  I  can  never  be  dear  to  her 
as  thou  art,  yet  I  am  her  child,  nor  would  the  fated  revolutions 
of  existence  be  fulfilled  without  my  aid. 

POET.  How  meanest  thou  ?  What  have  thy  measurements, 
thy  artificial  divisions  and  classifications,  to  do  with  the  natural 
revolutions  ?  In  all  real  growths  there  is  a  "  give  and  take"  of 
unerring  accuracy  ;  in  all  the  acts  of  thy  life  there  is  falsity,  for 
all  are  negative.  Why  do  you  not  receive  and  produce  in  your 
kind,  like  the  sunbeam  and  the  rose  ?  Then  new  light  would  be 
brought  out,  were  it  but  the  life  of  a  weed,  to  bear  witness  to  the 
healthful  beatings  of  the  divine  heart.  But  this  perpetual  ana 
lysis,  comparison,  and  classification,  never  add  one  atom  to  the 
sum  of  existence. 

CRITIC.     I  understand  you. 


12  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

POET.  Yes,  that  is  always  the  way.  You  understand  me, 
who  never  have  the  arrogance  to  pretend  that  I  understand  my 
self. 

CRITIC.  Why  should  you  ? — that  is  my  province.  I  am  the 
rock  which  gives  you  back  the  echo.  1  am  the  tuning-key, 
which  harmonizes  your  instrument,  the  regulator  to  your  watch. 
Who  would  speak,  if  no  ear  heard  ?  nay,  if  no  mind  knew  what 
the  ear  heard  ? 

POET.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  heard  in  thought  but  in  love,  to  be 
recognised  in  judgment  but  in  life.  I  would  pour  forth  my 
melodies  to  the  rejoicing  winds.  I  would  scatter  my  seed  to  the 
tender  earth.  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  in  prose  the  meaning  of  my 
melody.  1  do  not  wish  to  see  my  seed  neatly  put  away  beneath 
a  paper  label.  Answer  in  new  pceans  to  the  soul  of  our  souls. 
Wake  me  to  sweeter  childhood  by  a  fresher  growth.  At  pres 
ent  you  are  but  an  excrescence  produced  by  my  life  ;  depart, 
self-conscious  Egotist,  I  know  you  not. 

CRITIC.  Dost  thou  so  adore  Nature,  and  yet  deny  me  ?  Is 
not  Art  the  child  of  Nature,  Civilization  of  Man  ?  As  Religion 
into  Philosophy,  Poetry  into  Criticism,  Life  into  Science,  Love 
into  Law,  so  did  thy  lyric  in  natural  order  transmute  itself  into 
my  review. 

POET.  Review  !  Science  !  the  very  etymology  speaks.  What 
is  gained  by  looking  again  at  what  has  already  been  seen  ? 
What  by  giving  a  technical  classification  to  what  is  already  as 
similated  with  the  mental  life  ? 

CRITIC.     What  is  gained  by  living  at  all  ? 

POET.     Beauty  loving  itself, — Happiness  ! 

CRITIC.     Does  not  this  involve  consciousness  ? 

POET.  Yes  !  consciousness  of  Truth  manifested  in  the  indi 
vidual  form. 

CRITIC.    Since  consciousness  is  tolerated,  how  will  you  limit  it  ? 


A  DIALOGUE;  13 


POET.  By  the  instincts  of  my  naturagMtflj  rejects  yours  as 
arrogant  and  superfluous. 

CRITIC.  And  the  dictate  of  my  nature  compels  me  to  the 
processes  which  you  despise,  as  essential  to  my  peace.  My 
brother  (for  I  will  not  be  rejected)  I  claim  my  place  in  the  order 
of  nature.  The  word  descended  and  became  flesh  for  two  pur 
poses,  to  organize  itself,  and  to  take  cognizance  of  its  organiza 
tion.  When  the  first  Poet  worked  alone,  he  paused  between  the 
cantos  to  proclaim,  "  It  is  very  good."  Dividing  himself  among 
men,  he  made  some  to  create,  and  others  to  proclaim  the  merits 
of  what  is  created. 

POET.  Well !  if  you  were  content  with  saying,  "  it  is  very 
good  ;"  but  you  are  always  crying,  "  it  is  very  bad,"  or  igno- 
rantly  prescribing  how  it  might  be  better.  What  do  you  know 
of  it  ?  Whatever  is  good  could  not  be  otherwise  than  it  is. 
Why  will  you  not  take  what  suits  you,  and  leave  the  rest  ? 
True  communion  of  thought  is  worship,  not  criticism.  Spirit 
will  not  flow  through  the  sluices  nor  endure  the  locks  of  canals. 

CRITIC.  There  is  perpetual  need  of  protestantism  in  every 
church.  If  the  church  be  catholic,  yet  the  priest  is  not  infalli 
ble.  Like  yourself,  I  sigh  for  a  perfectly  natural  state,  in  which 
the  only  criticism  shall  be  tacit  rejection,  even  as  Venus  glides 
not  into  the  orbit  of  Jupiter,  nor  do  the  fishes  seek  to  dwell  in 
fire.  But  as  you  soar  towards  this  as  a  Maker,  so  do  I  toil  to 
wards  the  same  aim  as  a  Seeker.  Your  pinions  will  not  upbear 
you  towards  it  in  steady  flight.  I  must  often  stop  to  cut  away 
the  brambles  from  my  path.  The  law  of  my  being  is  on  me, 
and  the  ideal  standard  seeking  to  be  realized  in  my  mind  bids  me 
demand  perfection  from  all  I  see.  To  say  how  far  each  object 
answers  this  demand  is  my  criticism. 

POET.  If  one  object  does  not  satisfy  you,  pass  on  to  another 
and  say  nothing. 

CRITIC.     It  is  not  so  that  it  would  be  well  with  me.     I  must 


14  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

penetrate  the  secret  of  my  wishes,  verify  the  justice  of  my  rea 
sonings.  I  must  examine,  compare,  sift,  and  winnow  ;  what  can 
bear  this  ordeal  remains  to  me  as  pure  gold.  I  cannot  pass  on 
till  I  know  what  I  feel  and  why.  An  object  that  defies  my  ut 
most  rigor  of  scrutiny  is  a  new  step  on  the  stair  I  am  making  to 
the  Olympian  tables. 

POET.  I  think  you  will  not  know  the  gods  when  you  get 
there,  if  I  may  judge  from  the  cold  presumption  I  feel  in  your 
version  of  the  great  facts  of  literature. 

CRITIC.  Statement  of  a  part  always  looks  like  ignorance, 
when  compared  with  the  whole,  yet  may  promise  the  whole. 
Consider  that  a  part  implies  the  whole,  as  the  everlasting  No  the 
everlasting  Yes,  and  permit  to  exist  the  shadow  of  your  light,  the 
register  of  your  inspiration. 

As  he  spake  the  word  he  paused,  for  with  it  his  companion 
vanished,  and  left  floating  on  the  cloud  a  starry  banner  with  the 
inscription  "  AFFLATUR  NUMINE."  The  Critic  unfolded  one  on 
whose  flag-staff  he  had  been  leaning.  Its  heavy  folds  of  pearly 
gray  satin  slowly  unfolding,  gave  to  view  the  word  NOTITIA,  and 
Causarum  would  have  followed,  when  a  sudden  breeze  from  the 
west  caught  it,  those  heavy  folds  folds  fell  back  round  the  poor 
man,  and  stifled  him  probably, — at  least  he  has  never  since  been 
heard  of. 


THE  TWO  HERBERTS. 


THE  following  sketch  is  meant  merely  to  mark  some  prominent 
features  in  the  minds  of  the  two  Herberts,  under  a  form  less 
elaborate  and  more  reverent  than  that  of  criticism. 

A  mind  of  penetrating  and  creative  power  could  not  find  a 
better  subject  for  a  masterly  picture.  The  two  figures  stand 
as  representatives  of  natural  religion,  and  of  that  of  the  Son  of 
Man,  of  the  life  of  the  philosophical  man  of  the  world,  and  the 
secluded,  contemplative,  though  beneficent  existence. 

The  present  slight  effort  is  not  made  with  a  view  to  the  great 
and  dramatic  results  so  possible  to  the  plan.  It  is  intended 
chiefly  as  a  setting  to  the  Latin  poems  of  Lord  Herbert,  which 
are  known  to  few, — a  year  ago,  seemingly,  were  so  to  none  in 
this  part  of  the  world.  The  only  desire  in  translating  them  has 
been  to  do  so  literally,  as  any  paraphrase,  or  addition  of  words 
impairs  their  profound  meaning.  It  is  hoped  that,  even  in  their 
present  repulsive  garb,  without  rhyme  or  rhythm,  stripped,  too, 
of  the  majestic  Roman  mantle,  the  greatness  of  the  thoughts,  and 
the  large  lines  of  spiritual  experience,  will  attract  readers,  who 
will  not  find  time  misspent  in  reading  them  many  times. 

George  Herbert's  heavenly  strain  is  better,  though  far  from 
generally,  known. 

There  has  been  no  attempt  really  to  represent  these  persons 
speaking  their  own  dialect,  or  in  their  own  individual  manners. 
The  writer  loves  too  well  to  hope  to  imitate  the  sprightly,  fresh, 
and  varied  style  of  Lord  Herbert,  or  the  quaintness  and  keen 
sweets  of  his  brother's.  Neither  have  accessories  been  given, 


16  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

such  as  might  easily  have  been  taken  from  their  works.  But 
the  thoughts  imputed  to  them  they  might  have  spoken,  only  in 
better  and  more  concise  terms,  and  the  facts — are  facts.  So  let 
this  be  gently  received  with  the  rest  of  the  modern  tapestries. 
We  can  no  longer  weave  them  of  the  precious  materials  princes 
once  furnished,  but  we  can  give,  in  our  way,  some  notion  of  the 
original  design. 

It  was  an  afternoon  of  one  of  the  longest  summer  days.  The 
sun  had  showered  down  his  amplest  bounties,  the  earth  put  on 
her  richest  garment  to  receive  them.  The  clear  heavens  seemed 
to  open  themselves  to  the  desire  of  mortals ;  the  day  had  been 
long  enough  and  bright  enough  to  satisfy  an  immortal. 

In  a  green  lane  leading  from  the  town  of  Salisbury,  in  Eng 
land,  the  noble  stranger  was  reclining  beneath  a  tree.  His  eye 
was  bent  in  the  direction  of  the  town,  as  if  upon  some  figure  ap 
proaching  or  receding  ;  but  its  inward  turned  expression  showed 
that  he  was,  in  fact,  no  longer  looking,  but  lost  in  thought. 

"  Happiness  !"  thus  said  his  musing  mind,  "  it  would  seem  at 
such  hours  and  in  such  places  as  if  it  not  merely  hovered  over 
the  earth,  a  poetic  presence  to  animate  our  pulses  and  give  us 
courage  for  what  must  be,  but  sometimes  alighted.  Such  fulness 
of  expression  pervades  these  fields,  these  trees,  that  it  excites,  not 
rapture,  but  a  blissful  sense  of  peace.  Yet,  even  were  this  per 
manent  in  the  secluded  lot,  would  I  accept  it  in  exchange  for  the 
bitter  sweet  of  a  wider,  freer  life  ?  I  could  not  if  I  would  ;  yet, 
methinks,  I  would  not  if  I  could.  But  here  comes  George,  I 
will  argue  the  point  with  him." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  went  forward  to  meet  his  brother, 
who  at  this  moment  entered  the  lane. 

The  two  forms  were  faithful  expressions  of  their  several  lives. 
There  was  a  family  likeness  between  them,  for  they  shared  in 
that  beauty  of  the  noble  English  blood,  of  which,  in  these  days, 


THE  TWO  HERBERTS.  17 

few  types  remain  :  the  Norman  tempered  by  the  Saxon,  the  fire 
of  conquest  by  integrity,  and  a  self-contained,  inflexible  habit  of 
mind.  In  the  times  of  the  Sydney s  and  Russells,  the  English 
body  was  a  strong  and  nobly-proportioned  vase,  in  which  shone  a 
steady  and  powerful,  if  not  brilliant  light. 

The  chains  of  convention,  an  external  life  grown  out  of  pro 
portion  with  that  of  the  heart  and  mind,  have  destroyed,  for  the 
most  part,  this  dignified  beauty.  There  is  no  longer,  in  fact,  an 
aristocracy  in  England,  because  the  saplings  are  too  puny  to  rep 
resent  the  old  oak.  But  that  it  once  existed,  and  did  stand  for 
what  is  best  in  that  nation,  any  collection  of  portraits  from  the 
sixteenth  century  will  show. 

The  two  men  who  now  met  had  character  enough  to  exhibit  in 
their  persons  not  only  the  stock  from  which  they  sprang,  but 
what  was  special  in  themselves  harmonized  with  it.  There  were 
ten  years  betwixt  them,  but  the  younger  verged  on  middle  age  ; 
and  permanent  habits,  as  well  as  tendencies  of  character,  were 
stamped  upon  their  persons. 

Lord  Edward  Herbert  was  one  of  the  handsomest  men  of  his 
day,  of  a  beauty  alike  stately,  chivalric  and  intellectual.  His 
person  and  features  were  cultivated  by  all  the  disciplines  of  a 
time  when  courtly  graces  were  not  insignificant,  because  a  mon 
arch  mind  informed  the  court,  nor  warlike  customs,  rude  or  me 
chanical,  for  individual  nature  had  free  play  in  the  field,  except 
as  restrained  by  the  laws  of  courtesy  and  honor.  The  steel 
glove  became  his  hand,  and  the  spur  his  heel ;  neither  can  we 
fancy  him  out  of  his  place,  for  any  place  he  would  have  made 
his  own.  But  all  this  grace  and  dignity  of  the  man  of  the  world 
was  in  him  subordinated  to  that  of  the  man,  for  in  his  eye,  and 
in  the  brooding  sense  of  all  his  countenance,  was  felt  the  life  of 
one  who,  while  he  deemed  that  his  present  honour  lay  in  playing 
well  the  part  assigned  him  by  destiny,  never  forgot  that  it  was 


18  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

but  a  part,  and  fed  steadily  his  forces  on  that  within  that  passes 
show. 

It  has  been  said,  with  a  deep  wisdom,  that  the  figure  we  most 
need  to  see  before  us  now  is  not  that  of  a  saint,  martyr,  sage, 
poet,  artist,  preacher,  or  any  other  whose  vocation  leads  to  a  se 
clusion  and  partial  use  of  faculty,  but  "  a  spiritual  man  of  the 
world,"  able  to  comprehend  all  things,  exclusively  dedicate  to 
none.  Of  this  idea  we  need  a  new  expression,  peculiarly 
adapted  to  our  time ;  but  in  the  past  it  will  be  difficult  to  find 
one  more  adequate  than  the  life  and  person  of  Lord  Herbert. 

George  Herbert,  like  his  elder  brother,  was  tall,  erect,  and 
with  the  noble  air  of  one  sprung  from  a  race  whose  spirit  has 
never  been  broken  or  bartered  ;  but  his  thin  form  contrasted  with 
the  full  development  which  generous  living,  various  exercise,  and 
habits  of  enjoyment  had  given  his  brother.  Nor  had  his  features 
that  range  and  depth  of  expression  which  tell  of  many-coloured 
experiences,  and  passions  undergone  or  vanquished.  The  depth, 
for  there  was  depth,  was  of  feeling  rather  than  experience.  A 
penetrating  sweetness  beamed  from  him  on  the  observer,  who  was 
rather  raised  and  softened  in  himself  than  drawn  to  think  of  the 
being  who  infused  this  heavenly  fire  into  his  veins.  Like  the 
violet,  the  strong  and  subtle  odour  of  his  mind  was  arrayed  at  its 
source  with  such  an  air  of  meekness,  that  the  receiver  blessed 
rather  the  liberal  winds  of  heaven  than  any  earth-born  flower 
for  the  gift. 

Raphael  has  lifted  the  transfigured  Saviour  only  a  little  way 
from  the  ground ;  but  in  the  forms  and  expression  of  the  feet, 
you  see  that,  though  they  may  walk  there  again,  they  would 
tread  far  more  naturally  a  more  delicate  element.  This  buoy 
ant  lightness,  which,  by  seeking,  seems  to  tread  the  air,  is  indi 
cated  by  the  text :  "  Beautiful  upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet 
of  those  who  come  with  glad  tidings."  And  such  thoughts  were 
suggested  by  the  gait  and  gesture  of  George  Herbert,  especially 


THE  TWO   HERBERTS.  19 

as  he  approached  you.  Through  the  faces  of  most  men,  even 
of  geniuses,  the  soul  shines  as  through  a  mask,  or,  at  best,  a 
crystal ;  we  look  behind  a  shield  for  the  heart.  But,  with  those 
of  seraphic  nature,  or  so  filled  with  spirit  that  translation  may  be 
near,  it  seems  to  hover  before  or  around,  announcing  or  enfold 
ing  them  like  a  luminous  atmosphere.  Such  an  one  advances 
like  a  vision,  and  the  eye  must  steady  itself  before  a  spiritual 
light,  to  recognize  him  as  a  reality. 

Some  such  emotion  was  felt  by  Lord  Herbert  as  he  looked  on 
his  brother,  who,  for  a  moment  or  two,  approached  without  ob 
serving  him,  but  absorbed  and  radiant  in  his  own  happy  thoughts. 
They  had  not  met  for  long,  and  it  seemed  that  George  had 
grown  from  an  uncertain  boy,  often  blushing  and  shrinking  either 
from  himself  or  others,  into  an  angelic  clearness,  such  as  the 
noble  seeker  had  not  elsewhere  found. 

But  when  he  was  seen,  the  embrace  was  eager  and  affectionate 
as  that  of  the  brother  and  the  child. 

"  Let  us  not  return  at  once,"  said  Lord  Herbert.  "  I  had  al 
ready  waited  for  you  long,  and  have  seen  all  the  beauties  of  the 
parsonage  and  church." 

"  Not  many,  I  think,  in  the  eyes  of  such  a  critic,"  said  George, 
as  they  seated  themselves  in  the  spot  his  brother  had  before 
chosen  for  the  extent  and  loveliness  of  prospect. 

"  Enough  to  make  me  envious  of  you,  if  I  had  not  early  seen 
enough  to  be  envious  of  none.  Indeed,  I  know  not  if  such  a 
feeling  can  gain  admittance  to  your  little  paradise,  for  I  never 
heard  such  love  and  reverence  expressed  as  by  your  people  for 
you." 

George  looked  upon  his  brother  with  a  pleased  and  open  sweet 
ness.  Lord  Herbert  continued,  with  a  little  hesitation — "  To  tell 
the  truth,  I  wondered  a  little  at  the  boundless  affection  they  de 
clared.  Our  mother  has  long  and  often  told  me  of  your  pure 
and  beneficent  life,  and  I  know  what  you  have  done  for  this  place 


20  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

and  people,  but,  as  I  remember,  you  were  of  a  choleric  tern- 
per." 

"  And  am  so  still !" 

"  Well,  and  do  you  not  sometimes,  by  flashes  of  that,  lose  all 
you  may  have  gained  ?" 

"  It  does  not  often  now,"  he  replied,  "  find  open  way.  My 
Master  has  been  very  good  to  me  in  suggestions  of  restraining 
prayer,  which  come  into  my  mind  at  the  hour  of  temptation." 

Lord  H. — Why  do  you  not  say,  rather,  that  your  own  discern 
ing  mind  and  maturer  will  show  you  more  and  more  the  folly 
and  wrong  of  such  outbreaks. 

George  H. — Because  that  would  not  be  saying  all  that  I  think. 
At  such  times  I  feel  a  higher  power  interposed,  as  much  as  I  see 
that  yonder  tree  is  distinct  from  myself.  Shall  I  repeat  to  you 
some  poor  verses  in  which  I  have  told,  by  means  of  various  like 
nesses,  in  an  imperfect  fashion,  how  it  is  with  me  in  this 
matter  ? 

Lord  H. — Do  so  !  I  shall  hear  them  gladly  ;  for  I,  like  you, 
though  with  less  time  and  learning  to  perfect  it,  love  the  delibe 
rate  composition  of  the  closet,  and  believe  we  can  better  under 
stand  one  another  by  thoughts  expressed  so,  than  in  the  more 
glowing  but  hasty  words  of  the  moment. 

George  H. — 

Prayer — the  church's  banquet ;  angel's  age ; 

God's  breath  in  man  returning  to  his  birth  ; 
The  soul  in  paraphrase ;  heart  in  pilgrimage ; 

The  Christian  plummet,  sounding  heaven  and  earth. 

Engine  against  th'  Almighty ;  sinner's  tower ; 

Reversed  thunder ;  Christ's  side-piercing  spear ; 
The  six-days'  world  transposing  in  an  hour ; 

A  kind  of  tune,  which  all  things  hear  and  fear. 

Softness,  and  peace,  and  joy,  and  love,  and  bliss  j 
Exalted  manna;  gladness  of  the  best; 


THE  TWO   HERBERTS.  21 

Heaven  in  ordinary ;  man  well  drest ; 

The  milky  way ;  the  bird  of  paradise ; 
Church  bells  beyond  the  stars  heard;  the  soul's  blood  ; 
The  land  of  spices;  something  understood. 

Lord  H. — (who  has  listened  attentively,  after  a  moment's 
thought.) — Tnere  is  something  in  the  spirit  of  your  lines  which 
pleases  me,  and,  in  general,  I  know  not  that  I  should  differ ;  yet 
you  have  expressed  yourself  nearest  to  mine  own  knowledge  and 
feeling,  where  you  have  left  more  room  to  consider  our  prayers 
as  aspirations,  rather  than  the  gifts  of  grace  ;  as — 

"  Heart  in  pilgrimage  ;" 

"  A  kind  of  tune,  which  all  things  hear  and  fear." 
"  Something  understood." 

In  your  likenesses,  you  sometimes  appear  to  quibble  in  a  way 
unworthy  the  subject. 

George  H. — It  is  the  nature  of  some  minds,  brother,  to  play 
with  what  they  love  best.  Yours  is  of  a  grander  and  severer 
cast ;  it  can  only  grasp  and  survey  steadily  what  interests  it. 
My  walk  is  different,  and  I  have  always  admired  you  in  yours 
without  expecting  to  keep  pace  with  you. 

Lord  H. — I  hear  your  sweet  words  with  the  more  pleasure, 
George,  that  I  had  supposed  you  were  now  too  much  of  the 
churchman  to  value  the  fruits  of  my  thought. 

George  H. — God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  cease  to  reverence 
the  mind  that  was,  to  my  own,  so  truly  that  of  an  elder  brother  ! 
I  do  lament  that  you  will  not  accept  the  banner  of  my  Master, 
and  drink  at  what  I  have  found  the  fountain  of  pure  wisdom. 
But  as  I  would  not  blot  from  the  book  of  life  the  prophets  and 
priests  that  came  before  Him,  nor  those  antique  sages  who 
knew  all 

That  Reason  hath  from  Nature  borrowed, 

Or  of  itself,  like  a  good  housewife  spun, 

In  laws  and  policy :  what  the  stars  conspire : 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


What  willing  Nature  speaks ;  what,  freed  by  fire : 
Both  th'  old  discoveries,  and  the  new  found  seas : 
The  stock  and  surplus,  cause  and  history, — 

As  I  cannot  resign  and  disparage  these,  because  they  have  not 
what  I  conceive  to  be  the  pearl  of  all  knowledge,  how  could  I 
you  ? 

Lord  H. — You  speak  wisely,  George,  and,  let  me  add,  re 
ligiously.  Were  all  churchmen  as  tolerant,  I  had  never  assailed 
the  basis  of  their  belief.  Did  they  not  insist  and  urge  upon  us 
their  way  as  the  one  only  way,  not  for  them  alone,  but  for  all, 
none  would  wish  to  put  stumbling-blocks  before  their  feet. 

George  H. — Nay,  my  brother,  do  not  misunderstand  me. 
None,  more  than  I,  can  think  there  is  but  one  way  to  arrive 
finally  at  truth. 

Lord  H. — I  do  not  misunderstand  you  ;  but,  feeling  that  you 
are  one  who  accept  what  you  do  from  love  of  the  best,  and  not 
from  fear  of  the  worst,  I  am  as  much  inclined  to  tolerate  your 
conclusions  as  you  to  tolerate  mine. 

George  H. — I  do  not  consider  yours  as  conclusions,  but  only 
as  steps  to  such.  The  progress  of  the  mind  should  be  from  natu 
ral  to  revealed  religion,  as  there  must  be  a  sky  for  the  sun  to 
give  light  through  its  expanse. 

Lord  H. — The  sky  is — nothing ! 

George  H. — Except  room  for  a  sun,  and  such  there  is  in  you. 
Of  your  own  need  of  such,  did  you  not  give  convincing  proof, 
when  you  prayed  for  a  revelation  to  direct  whether  you  should 
publish  a  book  against  revelation  ?* 

*  The  following  narration,  published  by  Lord  Herbert,  in  his  life,  has  often 
been  made  use  of  by  his  opponents.  It  should  be  respected  as  an  evidence  of 
his  integrity,  being,  like  the  rest  of  his  memoir,  a  specimen  of  absolute  truth 
and  frankness  towards  himself  and  all  other  beings  : — 

Having  many  conscientious  doubts  whether  or  no  to  publish  his  book,  De 
Veritate,  (which  was  against  revealed  religion,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  im 
probable  that  Heaven  should  deal  partially  with  men,  revealing  its  will  to  one 


THE  TWO  HERBERTS.  23 

Lord  H. — You  borrow  that  objection  from  the  crowd,  George  ; 
but  I  wonder  you  have  not  looked  into  the  matter  more  deeply. 
Is  there  any  thing  inconsistent  with  disbelief  in  a  partial  plan  of 
salvation  for  the  nations,  which,  by  its  necessarily  limited  work 
ing,  excludes  the  majority  of  men  up  to  our  day,  with  belief  that 
each  individual  soul,  wherever  born,  however  nurtured,  may  re 
ceive  immediate  response,  in  an  earnest  hour,  from  the  source  of 
truth. 

George  H. — But  you  believed  the  customary  order  of  nature 
to  be  deranged  in  your  behalf.  What  miraculous  record  does 
more  ? 

Lord  H. — It  was  at  the  expense  of  none  other.  A  spirit 
asked,  a  spirit  answered,  and  its  voice  was  thunder  ;  but,  in  this, 
there  was  nothing  special,  nothing  partial  wrought  in  my  behalf, 
more  than  if  I  had  arrived  at  the  same  conclusion  by  a  process 
of  reasoning. 

George  H. — I  cannot  but  think,  that  if  your  mind  were  al- 

race  and  nation,  not  to  another,)  "  Being  thus  doubtful  in  my  chamber,  one  fair 
day  in  the  summer,  my  casement  being  opened  to  the  south,  the  sun  shining 
clear  and  no  wind  stirring,  I  took  my  book,  De  Veritate,  in  my  hand,  and  kneel 
ing  on  my  knees,  devoutly  said  these  words  : — O,  thou  eternal  God,  author  of 
the  light  which  now  shines  upon  me,  and  giver  of  all  inward  illuminations,  I 
do  beseech  thee,  of  thy  infinite  goodness,  to  pardon  a  greater  request  than  a 
sinner  ought  to  make.  I  am  not  satisfied  enough  whether  I  shall  publish  this 
book,  De  Veritate.  If  it  be  for  thy  glory,  I  beseech  thee  give  me  some  sign 
from  heaven ;  if  not,  I  shall  suppress  it. — I  had  no  sooner  spoken  these  words, 
but  a  loud,  though  yet  gentle  noise  came  from  the  heavens,  (for  it  was  like  no 
thing  on  earth,)  which  did  so  comfort  and  cheer  me,  that  I  took  my  petition  as 
granted,  and  that  I  had  the  sign  I  demanded,  whereupon,  also,  I  resolved  to 
print  my  book.  This,  how  strange  soever  it  may  seem,  I  protest  before  the 
Eternal  God,  is  true ;  neither  am  I  any  way  superstitiously  deceived  herein, 
since  I  did  not  only  clearly  hear  the  noise,  but  in  the  serenest  sky  that  ever  I 
saw,  being  without  all  cloud,  did,  to  my  thinking,  see  the  place  from  whence  it 
came." 

Lord  Orford  observes,  with  his  natural  sneer,  "How  could  a  man  who 
doubted  of  partial,  believe  individual  revelation  ?" 


34  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

lowed,  by  the  nature  of  your  life,  its  free  force  to  search,  it 
would  survey  the  subject  in  a  different  way,  and  draw  inferences 
more  legitimate  from  a  comparison  of  its  own  experience  with 
the  gospel. 

Lord  H. — My  brother  does  not  think  the  mind  is  free  to  act 
in  courts  and  camps.  To  me  it  seems  that  the  mind  takes  its 
own  course  everywhere,  and  that,  if  men  cannot  have  outward, 
they  can  always  mental  seclusion.  None  is  so  profoundly  lonely, 
none  so  in  need  of  constant  self-support,  as  he  who,  living  in  the 
crowd,  thinks  an  inch  aside  from,  or  in  advance  of  it.  The  her 
mitage  of  such  an  one  is  still  and  cold  ;  its  silence  unbroken  to  a 
degree  of  which  these  beautiful  and  fragrant  solitudes  give  no 
hint.  These  sunny  sights  and  sounds,  promoting  reverie  rather 
than  thought,  are  scarce  more  favourable  to  a  great  advance  in 
the  intellect,  than  the  distractions  of  the  busy  street.  Beside,  we 
need  the  assaults  of  other  minds  to  quicken  our  powers,  so  easily 
hushed  to  sleep,  and  call  it  peace.  The  mind  takes  a  bias  too 
easily,  and  does  not  examine  whether  from  tradition  or  a  native 
growth  intended  by  the  heavens. 

George  H. — But  you  are  no  common  man.  You  shine,  you 
charm,  you  win,  and  the  world  presses  too  eagerly  on  you  to 
leave  many  hours  for  meditation. 

Lord  H. — It  is  a  common  error  to  believe  that  the  most  pros 
perous  men  love  the  world  best.  It  may  be  hardest  for  them  to 
leave  it,  because  they  have  been  made  effeminate  and  slothful  by 
want  of  that  exercise  which  difficulty  brings.  But  this  is  not  the 
case  with  me  ;  for,  while  the  common  boons  of  life's  game  have 
been  too  easily  attained,  to  hold  high  value  in  my  eyes,  the  goal 
which  my  secret  mind,  from  earliest  infancy,  prescribed,  has  been 
high  enough  to  task  all  my  energies.  Every  year  has  helped  to 
make  that,  and  that  alone,  of  value  in  my  eyes ;  and  did  I  be 
lieve  that  life,  in  scenes  like  this,  would  lead  me  to  it  more 
speedily  than  in  my  accustomed  broader  way,  I  would  seek  it 


THE  TWO  HERBERTS.  25 

to-morrow — nay,  to-day.  But  is  it  worthy  of  a  man  to  make  him 
a  cell,  in  which  alone  he  can  worship  ?  Give  me  rather  the  al 
ways  open  temple  of  the  universe  !  To  me,  it  seems  that  the 
only  course  for  a  man  is  that  pointed  out  by  birth  and  fortune. 
Let  him  take  that  and  pursue  it  with  clear  eyes  and  head  erect, 
secure  that  it  must  point  at  last  to  those  truths  which  are  central 
to  us,  wherever  we  stand  ;  and  if  my  road,  leading  through  the 
busy  crowd  of  men,  amid  the  clang  and  bustle  of  conflicting  in 
terests  and  passions,  detain  me  longer  than  would  the  still  path 
through  the  groves,  the  chosen  haunt  of  contemplation,  yet  I  in 
cline  to  think  that  progress  so,  though  slower,  is  surer.  Owing 
no  safety,  no  clearness  to  my  position,  but  so  far  as  it  is  attained 
to  mine  own  effort,  encountering  what  temptations,  doubts  and 
lures  may  beset  a  man,  what  I  do  possess  is  more  surely  mine, 
and  less  a  prey  to  contingencies.  It  is  a  well-tempered  wine 
that  has  been  carried  over  many  seas,  and  escaped  many  ship 
wrecks. 

George  H. — I  can  the  less  gainsay  you,  my  lord  and  brother, 
that  your  course  would  have  been  mine  could  I  have  chosen. 

Lord  H. — Yes  ;  I  remember  thy  verse  : — 

Whereas  my  birth  and  spirits  rather  took 

The  way  that  takes  the  town ; 
Thou  didst  betray  me  to  a  lingering  book, 

And  wrap  me  in  a  gown. 

It  was  not  my  fault,  George,  that  it  so  chanced. 

George  H. — I  have  long  learnt  to  feel  that  it  noway  chanced ; 
that  thus,  and  no  other,  was  it  well  for  me.  But  how  I  view 
these  matters  you  are,  or  may  be  well  aware,  through  a  little 
book  I  have  writ.  Of  you  I  would  fain  learn  more  than  can  be 
shown  me  by  the  display  of  your  skill  in  controversy  in  your 
printed  works,  or  the  rumors  of  your  feats  at  arms,  or  success 
with  the  circles  of  fair  ladies,  which  reach  even  this  quiet  nook. 
Rather  let  us,  in  this  hour  of  intimate  converse,  such  as  we  have 

3 


26  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

not  had  for  years,  and  may  not  have  again,  draw  near  in  what  is 
nearest ;  and  do  you,  my  dear  Lord,  vouchsafe  your  friend  and 
brother  some  clear  tokens  as  to  that  goal  you  say  has  from  child 
hood  been  mentally  prescribed  you,  and  the  way  you  have  taken 
to  gain  it. 

Lord  H. — I  will  do  this  willingly,  and  the  rather  that  I  have 
with  me  a  leaf,  in  which  I  have  lately  recorded  what  appeared 
to  me  in  glimpse  or  flash  in  my  young  years,  and  now  shines  upon 
my  life  with  steady  ray.  I  brought  it,  with  some  thought  that  I 
might  impart  it  to  you,  which  confidence  I  have  not  shown  to 
any  yet ;  though  if,  as  I  purpose,  some  memoir  of  my  life  and 
times  should  fall  from  my  pen,  these  poems  may  be  interwoven 
there  as  cause  and  comment  for  all  I  felt,  and  knew,  and  was. 
The  first  contains  my  thought  of  the  beginning  and  progress  of 
life  :— 

(From  the  Latin  of  Lord  Herbert.} 
LIFE. 

First,  the  life  stirred  within  the  genial  seed, 
Seeking  its  properties,  whence  plastic  power 
Was  born.     Chaos,  with  lively  juice  pervading, 
External  form  in  its  recess  restraining, 
While  the  conspiring  causes  might  accede, 
And  full  creation  safely  be  essayed. 

Next,  movement  was  in  the  maternal  field ; 

Fermenting  spirit  puts  on  tender  limbs, 

And,  earnest,  now  prepares,  of  wondrous  fabric, 

The  powers  of  sense,  a  dwelling  not  too  mean  for  mind  contriving 

That,  sliding  from  its  heaven,  it  may  put  on 

These  faculties,  and,  prophesying  future  fate, 

Correct  the  slothful  weight  (of  matter,)  nor  uselessly  be  manifested. 

A  third  stage,  now,  scene  truly  great  contains 
The  solemn  feast  of  heaven,  the  theatre  of  earth, 
Kindred  and  species,  varied  forms  of  things 


B 


THE  TWO  HERBEMTS 


27 


Are  here  discerned,  —  and,  from  its  own  impulse 

It  is  permitted  to  the  soul  to  circle, 

Hither  and  thither  rove,  that  it  may  see 

Laws  and  eternal  covenants  of  its  world, 

And  stars  returning  in  assiduous  course, 

The  causes  and  the  bonds  of  life  to  learn, 

And  from  afar  foresee  the  highest  will. 

How  he  to  admirable  harmony 

Tempers  the  various  motions  of  the  world, 

And  Father,  Lord,  Guardian,  and  Builder-up, 

And  Deity  on  every  side  is  styled. 

Next,  from  this  knowledge  the  fourth  stage  proceeds  : 

Cleansing  away  its  stains,  mind  daily  grows  more  pure, 

Enriched  with  various  learning,  strong  in  virtue, 

Extends  its  powers,  and  breathes  sublimer  air: 

A  secret  spur  is  felt  within  the  inmost  heart, 

That  he  who  will,  may  emerge  from  this  perishable  state, 

And  a  happier  is  sought 

By  ambitious  rites,  consecrations,  religious  worship, 

And  a  new  hope  succeeds,  conscious  of  a  better  fate, 

Clinging  to  things  above,  expanding  through  all  the  heavens, 

And  the  Divine  descends  to  meet  a  holy  love, 

And  unequivocal  token  is  given  of  celestial  life. 

That,  as  a  good  servant,  I  shall  receive  my  reward  ; 

Or,  if  worthy,  enter  as  a  son,  into  the  goods  of  my  father, 

God  himself  is  my  surety.    When  I  shall  put  off  this  life, 

Confident  in  a  better,  free  in  my  own  will, 

He  himself  is  my  surety,  that  a  fifth,  yet  higher  state  shall  ensue, 

And  a  sixth,  and  all,  in  fine,  that  my  heart  shall  know  how  to  ask 


CONJECTURES   CONCERNING    THE    HEAVENLY    LIFE. 

Purified  in  my  whole  genius,  I  congratulate  myself 

Secure  of  fate,  while  neither  am  I  downcast  by  any  terrors, 

Nor  store  up  secret  griefs  in  my  heart, 

But  pass  my  days  cheerfully  in  the  midst  of  mishaps, 

Despite  the  evils  which  engird  the  earth, 

Seeking  the  way  above  the  stars  with  ardent  virtue. 

I  have  received,  beforehand,  the  first  fruits  of  heavenly  life — 


PAPERS  OI\   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


I  now  seek  the  later,  sustained  by  divine  love, 

Through  which,  conquering  at  once  the  scoffs  of  a  gloomy  destiny, 

I  leave  the  barbarous  company  of  a  frantic  age, 

Breathing  out  for  the  last  time  the  infernal  air — breathing  in  the  supernal, 

I  enfold  myself  wholly  in  these  sacred  flames, 

And,  sustained  by  them,  ascend  the  highest  dome, 

And  far  and  wide  survey  the  wonders  of  a  new  sphere, 

And  see  well-known  spirits,  now  beautiful  in  their  proper  light, 

And  the  choirs  of  the  higher  powers,  and  blessed  beings 

With  whom  I  desire  to  mingle  fires  and  sacred  bonds — 

Passing  from  joy  to  joy  the  heaven  of  all, 

What  has  been  given  to  ourselves,  or  sanctioned  by  a  common  vow. 

God,  in  the  meantime,  accumulating  his  rewards, 

May  at  once  increase  our  honour  and  illustrate  his  own  love. 

Nor  heavens  shall  be  wanting  to  heavens,  nor  numberless  ages  to  life, 

Nor  new  joys  to  these  ages,  such  as  an 

Eternity  shall  not  diminish,  nor  the  infinite  bring  to  an  end. 

Nor,  more  than  all,  shall  the  fair  favour  of  the  Divine  be  wanting — 

Constantly  increasing  these  joys,  varied  in  admirable  modes, 

And  making  each  state  yield  only  to  one  yet  happier, 

And  what  we  never  even  knew  how  to  hope,  is  given  to  us — 

Nor  is  aught  kept  back  except  what  only  the  One  can  conceive, 

And  what  in  their  own  nature  are  by  far  most  perfect 

In  us,  at  least,  appear  embellished, 

Since  the  sleeping  minds  which  heaven  prepares  from  the  beginning — 

Only  our  labor  and  industry  can  vivify, 

Polishing  them  with  learning  and  with  morals, 

That  they  may  return  all  fair,  bearing  back  a  dowry  to  heaven, 

When,  by  use  of  our  free  will,  we  put  to  rout  those  ills 

Which  heaven  has  neither  dispelled,  nor  will  hereafter  dispel. 

Thus  through  us  is  magnified  the  glory  of  God, 

And  our  glory,  too,  shall  resound  throughout  the  heavens, 

And  what  ar<>  the  due  rewards  of  virtue,  finally 

Must  render  the  Father  himself  more  happy  than  his  wont. 

Whence  still  more  ample  grace  shall  be  showered  upon  us, 

Each  and  all  yielding  to  our  prayer, 

For,  if  liberty  be  dear,  it  is  permitted 

To  roam  through  the  loveliest  regions  obvious  to  innumerable  heavens, 

And  gather,  as  we  pass,  the  delights  of  each, 


THE  TWO  HERBERTS.  29 

Ifjixed  contemplation  be  chosen  rather  in  the  mind, 

All  the  mysteries  of  the  high  regions  shall  be  laid  open  to  us, 

And  the  joy  will  be  to  know  the  methods  of  God, — 

Then  it  may  be  permitted  to  act  upon  earth,  to  have  a  care 

Of  the  weal  of  men,  and  to  bestow  just  laws. 

If  we  are  more  delighted  with  celestial  love, 

We  are  dissolved  into  flames  which  glide  about  and  excite  one  another 

Mutually,  embraced  in  sacred  ardours, 

Spring  upwards,  enfolded  together  in  firmest  bonds, 

In  parts  and  wholes,  mingling  by  turns, 

And  the  ardour  of  the  Divine  kindles  (in  them)  still  new  ardours, 

It  will  make  us  happy  to  praise  God,  while  he  commands  us, 

The  angelic  choir,  singing  together  with  sweet  modulation, 

Sounds  through  heaven,  publishing  our  joys, 

And  beauteous  spectacles  are  put  forth,  hour  by  hour, 

And,  as  it  were,  the  whole  fabric  of  heaven  becomes  a  theatre, 

Till  the  divine  energy  pervades  the  whole  sweep  of  the  world, 

And  chisels  out  from  it  new  forms, 

Adorned  with  new  faculties,  of  larger  powers. 

Our  forms,  too,  may  then  be  renewed — 

Assume  new  forms  and  senses,  till  our 

Joys  again  rise  up  consummate. 

If  trusting  thus,  I  shall  have  put  off  this  mortal  weed, 

Why  may  not  then  still  greater  things  be  disclosed  1 

George  H. — (who,  during  his  brother's  reading,  has  listened, 
with  head  bowed  down,  leaned  on  his  arm,  looks  up  after  a  few 
moments'  silence) — Pardon,  my  lord,  if  I  have  not  fit  words  to 
answer  you.  The  flood  of  your  thought  has  swept  over  me  like 
music,  and  like  that,  for  the  time,  at  least,  it  fills  and  satisfies. 
I  am  conscious  of  many  feelings  which  are  not  touched  upon 
there, — of  the  depths  of  love  and  sorrow  made  known  to  men, 
through  One  whom  you  as  yet  know  not.  But  of  these  I  will  not 
speak  now,  except  to  ask,  borne  on  this  strong  pinion,  have  you 
never  faltered  till  you  felt  the  need  of  a  friend  ?  strong  in  this 
clear  vision,  have  you  never  sighed  for  a  more  homefelt  assu 
rance  to  your  faith  ?  steady  in  your  demand  of  what  the  soul  re- 


30  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

quires,  have  you  never  known  fear  lest  you  want  purity  to  re 
ceive  the  boon  if  granted  ? 

Lord  H. — I  do  not  count  those  weak  moments,  George  ;  they 
are  not  my  true  life. 

George  H. — It  suffices  that  you  know  them,  for,  in  time,  I 
doubt  not  that  every  conviction  which  a  human  being  needs,  to  be 
reconciled  to  the  Parent  of  all,  will  be  granted  to  a  nature  so 
ample,  so  open,  and  so  aspiring.  Let  me  answer  in  a  strain 
which  bespeaks  my  heart  as  truly,  if  not  as  nobly  as  yours  an 
swers  to  your  great  mind, — 

My  joy,  my  life,  my  crown ! 

My  heart  was  meaning  all  the  day 

Somewhat  it  fain  would  say  ; 
And  still  it  runneth,  muttering,  up  and  down, 
With  only  this — my  joy,  my  life,  my  crown. 

Yet  slight  not  these  few  words ; 

If  truly  said,  they  may  take  part 

Among  the  best  in  art. 

The  fineness  which  a  hymn  or  psalm  affords, 
Is,  when  the  soul  unto  the  lines  accords. 

He  who  craves  all  the  mind 

And  all  the  soul,  and  strength  and  time ; 

If  the  words  only  rhyme, 
Justly  complains,  that  somewhat  is  behind 
To  make  his  verse  or  write  a  hymn  in  kind. 

Whereas,  if  the  heart  be  moved, 

Although  the  verse  be  somewhat  scant, 

God  doth  supply  the  want — 
As  when  the  heart  says,  sighing  to  be  approved, 
"  Oh,  could  I  love !"  and  stops;  God  writeth,  loved. 

Lord  H. — I  cannot  say  to  you  truly  that  my  mind  replies  to 
this,  although  I  discern  a  beauty  in  it.  You  will  say  I  lack  hu 
mility  to  understand  yours. 


THE  TWO  HERBERTS.  31 

George  H. — I  will  say  nothing,  but  leave  you  to  time  and  the 
care  of  a  greater  than  I.  We  have  exchanged  our  verse,  let  us 
now  change  our  subject  too,  and  walk  homeward ;  for  I  trust 
you,  this  night,  intend  to  make  my  roof  happy  in  your  presence, 
and  the  sun  is  sinking. 

Lord  H. — Yes,  you  know  I  am  there  to  be  introduced  to  my 
new  sister,  whom  I  hope  to  love,  and  win  from  her  a  sisterly  re 
gard  in  turn. 

George  H. — You,  none  can  fail  to  regard  ;  and  for  her,  even 
as  you  love  me,  you  must  her,  for  we  are  one. 

Lord  H. — (smiling) — Indeed  ;  two  years  wed,  and  say  that. 

George  H. — Will  your  lordship  doubt  it  ?  From  your  muse 
I  took  my  first  lesson. 


With  a  look,  it  seem'd  denied 

All  earthly  powers  but  hers,  yet  so 
As  if  to  her  breath  he  did  owe 
This  borrow'd  life,  he  thus  replied — 

And  shall  our  love,  so  far  beyond 

That  low  and  dying  appetite, 
And  which  so  chaste  desires  unite, 
Not  hold  in  an  eternal  bond  1 

O  no,  belov'd !  I  am  most  sure 

Those  virtuous  habits  we  acquire, 
As  being  with  the  soul  entire, 
Must  with  it  evermore  endure. 

Else  should  our  souls  in  vain  elect ; 

And  vainer  yet  were  heaven's  laws 
When  to  an  everlasting  cause 
They  gave  a  perishing  effect. 

Lord  H. — (sighing) — You  recall  a  happy  season,  when  my 
thoughts  were  as  delicate  of  hue,  and  of  as  heavenly  a  perfume 
as  the  flowers  of  May. 


PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


George  H. — Have  those  flowers  borne  no  fruit  ? 

Lord  H. — My  experience  of  the  world  and  men  had  made  me 
believe  that  they  did  not  indeed  bloom  in  vain,  but  that  the  fruit 
would  be  ripened  in  some  future  sphere  of  our  existence.  What 
my  own  marriage  was  you  know, — a  family  arrangement  mado 
for  me  in  my  childhood.  Such  obligations  as  such  a  marriage 
could  imply,  I  have  fulfilled,  and  it  has  not  failed  to  bring  me 
some  benefits  of  good-will  and  esteem,  and  far  more,  in  the  hap 
piness  of  being  a  parent.  But  my  observation  of  the  ties  formed, 
by  those  whose  choice  was  left  free,  has  not  taught  me  that  a 
higher  happiness  than  mine  was  the  destined  portion  of  men. 
They  are  too  immature  to  form  permanent  relations ;  all  that 
they  do  seems  experiment,  and  mostly  fails  for  the  present. 
Thus  I  had  postponed  all  hopes  except  of  fleeting  joys  or  ideal 
pictures.  Will  you  tell  me  that  you  are  possessed  already  of 
so  much  more  ? 

George  H. — I  am  indeed  united  in  a  bond,  whose  reality  I  can 
not  doubt,  with  one  whose  thoughts,  affections,  and  objects  every 
way  correspond  with  mine,  and  in  whose  life  I  see  a  purpose  so 
pure  that,  if  we  are  ever  separated,  the  fault  must  be  mine.  I 
believe  God,  in  his  exceeding  grace,  gave  us  to  one  another,  for 
we  met  almost  at  a  glance,  without  doubt  before,  jar  or  repent 
ance  after,  the  vow  which  bound  our  lives  together. 

Lord  H. — Then  there  is  indeed  one  circumstance  of  your  lot 
I  could  wish  to  share  with  you.  (After  some  moments'  silence 
on  both  sides) — They  told  me  at  the  house,  that,  with  all  your  en 
gagements,  you  go  twice  a-week  to  Salisbury.  How  is  that  ? 
How  can  you  leave  your  business  and  your  happy  home,  so  much 
and  often  ? 

George  H. — I  go  to  hear  the  music  ;  the  great  solemn  church 
music.  This  is,  at  once,  the  luxury  and  the  necessity  of  my  life. 
I  know  not  how  it  is  with  others,  but,  with  me,  there  is  a  frequent 
drooping  of  the  wings,  a  smouldering  of  the  inward  fires,  a  Ian- 


THE  TWO  HERBERTS.  33 

guor,  almost  a  loathing  of  corporeal  existence.  Of  this  visible 
diurnal  sphere  I  am,  by  turns,  the  master,  the  interpreter,  and 
the  victim ;  an  ever  burning  lamp,  to  warm  again  the  embers 
of  the  altar ;  a  skiff,  that  cannot  be  becalmed,  to  bear  me  again 
on  the  ocean  of  hope ;  an  elixir,  that  fills  the  dullest  fibre  with 
ethereal  energy  ;  such,  music  is  to  me.  It  stands  in  relation  to 
speech,  even  to  the  speech  of  poets,  as  the  angelic  choir,  who,  in 
their  subtler  being,  may  inform  the  space  around  us,  unseen  but 
felt,  do  to  men,  even  to  prophetic  men.  It  answers  to  the  soul's 
presage,  and,  in  its  fluent  life,  embodies  all  I  yet  know  how  to 
desire.  As  all  the  thoughts  and  hopes  of  human  souls  are 
blended  by  the  organ  to  a  stream  of  prayer  and  praise,  I  tune  at 
it  my  separate  breast,  and  return  to  my  little  home,  cheered  and 
ready  for  my  day's  work,  as  the  lark  does  to  her  nest  after  her 
morning  visit  to  the  sun. 

Lord  H. — The  ancients  held  that  the  spheres  made  music  to 
those  who  had  risen  into  a  state  which  enabled  them  to  hear  it. 
Pythagoras,  who  prepared  different  kinds  of  melody  to  guide  and 
expand  the  differing  natures  of  his  pupils,  needed  himself  to  hear 
none  on  instruments  made  by  human  art,  for  the  universal  har 
mony  which  comprehends  all  these  was  audible  to  him.  Man  feels 
in  all  his  higher  moments,  the  need  of  traversing  a  subtler  ele 
ment,  of  a  winged  existence.  Artists  have  recognised  wings  as 
the  symbol  of  the  state  next  above  ours  ;  but  they  have  not  been 
able  so  to  attach  them  to  the  forms  of  gods  and  angels  as  to  make 
them  agree  with  the  anatomy  of  the  human  frame.  Perhaps 
music  gives  this  instruction,  and  supplies  the  deficiency.  Al 
though  I  see  that  I  do  not  feel  it  as  habitually  or  as  profoundly 
as  you  do,  I  have  experienced  such  impressions  from  it. 

George  H. — That  is  truly  what  I  mean.  It  introduces  me  into 
that  winged  nature,  and  not  as  by  way  of  supplement,  but  of  in 
evitable  transition.  All  that  has  budded  in  me,  bursts  into  bloom, 
under  this  influence.  As  I  sit  in  our  noble  cathedral,  in  itself 

3*. 


34  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

one  of  the  holiest  thoughts  ever  embodied  by  the  power  of  man, 
the  great  tides  of  song  come  rushing  through  its  aisles ;  they  per- 
vade  all  the  space,  and  my  soul  within  it,  perfuming  me  like  in 
cense,  bearing  me  on  like  the  wind,  and  on  and  on  to  regions  of 
unutterable  joy,  and  freedom,  and  certainty.  As  their  triumph 
rises,  I  rise  with  them,  and  learn  to  comprehend  by  living  them, 
till  at  last  a  calm  rapture  seizes  me,  and  holds  me  poised.  The 
same  life  you  have  attained  in  your  description  of  the  celestial 
choirs.  It  is  the  music  of  the  soul,  when  centred  in  the  will  of 
God,  thrilled  by  the  love,  expanded  by  the  energy,  with  which  it 
is  fulfilled  through  all  the  ranges  of  active  life.  From  such 
hours,  I  return  through  these  green  lanes,  to  hear  the  same  tones 
from  the  slightest  flower,  to  long  for  a  life  of  purity  and  praise, 
such  as  is  manifested  by  the  flowers. 

At  this  moment  they  reached  the  door,  and  there  paused  to 
look  back.  George  Herbert  bent  upon  the  scene  a  half-abstracted 
look,  yet  which  had  a  celestial  tearfulness  in  it,  a  pensiveness 
beyond  joy.  His  brother  looked  on  him,  and,  beneath  that  fading 
twilight,  it  seemed  to  him  a  farewell  look.  It  was  so.  Soon 
George  Herbert  soared  into  the  purer  state,  for  which  his  soul 
had  long  been  ready,  though  not  impatient. 

The  brothers  met  no  more  ;  but  they  had  enjoyed  together  one 
hour  of  true  friendship,  when  mind  drew  near  to  mind  by  the 
light  of  faith,  and  heart  mingled  with  heart  in  the  atmosphere  of 
Divine  love.  It  was  a  great  boon  to  be  granted  two  mortals. 


THE   PROSE   WORKS   OF   MILTON. 

WITH  A  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION,  BY  R.  W.  GRISWOLD. 


THE  noble  lines  of  Wordsworth,  quoted  by  Mr.  Griswold  on 
his  title-page,  would  be  the  best  and  a  sufficient  advertisement  of 
each  reprint : 

"  Milton !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour. 

Return  to  us  again, 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  Sea : 
Pure  as  the  naked  Heavens,  majestic,  free : 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 
In  cheerful  Godliness,  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay." 

One  should  have  climbed  to  as  high  a  point  as  Wordsworth  to 
be  able  to  review  Milton,  or  even  to  view  in  part  his  high  places. 
From  the  hill-top  we  still  strain  our  eyes  looking  up  to  the  moun 
tain-peak — 

"  Itself  Earth's  Rosy  Star." 

We  rejoice  to  see  that  there  is  again  a  call  for  an  edition  of 
Milton's  Prose  Works.  There  could  not  be  a  surer  sign  that 
there  is  still  pure  blood  in  the  nation  than  a  call  for  these.  The 
print  and  paper  are  tolerably  good  ;  if  not  worthy  of  the  matter, 
yet  they  are,  we  suppose,  as  good  as  can  be  affordod  and  make 
the  book  cheap  enough  for  general  circulation.  We  wish  there 


36  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

had  been  three  volumes,  instead  of  two  clumsy  ones,  with  that 
detestably  narrow  inner  margin  of  which  we  have  heretofore 
complained.  But  we  trust  the  work  is  in  such  a  shape  that  it 
will  lie  on  the  table  of  all  poor  students  who  are  ever  to  be 
scholars,  and  be  the  good  angel,  the  Ithuriel  warner  of  many  a 
youth  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Who  chooses  that  way  which 
the  feet  of  Milton  never  forsook,  will  find  in  him  a  never  failing 
authority  for  the  indissoluble  union  between  permanent  strength 
and  purity.  May  many,  born  and  bred  amid  the  corruptions  of 
a  false  world  till  the  heart  is  on  the  verge  of  a  desolate  scepti 
cism  and  the  good  genius  preparing  to  fly,  be  led  to  recall  him 
and  make  him  at  home  forever  by  such  passages  as  we  have  read 
this  beautiful  bright  September  morning,  in  the  '  Apology  for 
Smectymnuus.'  We  chanced  happily  upon  them,  as  we  were 
pondering  some  sad  narrations  of  daily  life,  and  others  who  need 
the  same  consolation,  will  no  doubt  detect  them  in  a  short  inter 
course  with  the  volumes. 

Mr.  Griswold  thus  closes  his  "  Biographical  Introduction  :" — 

"  On  Sunday,  the  eighth  day  of  November,  1674,  one  month  before  com 
pleting  his  sixty-sixth  year,  JOHN  MILTON  died.  He  was  the  greatest  of  all 
human  beings:  the  noblest  and  the  ennobler  of  mankind.  He  has  steadily 
grown  in  the  world's  reverence,  and  his  fame  will  still  increase  with  the  lapse  of 


The  absolute  of  this  superlative  pleases  us,  even  if  we  do  be 
lieve  that  there  are  four  or  five  names  on  the  scroll  of  history 
which  may  be  placed  beside  that  of  Milton.  We  love  hero-wor 
ship,  where  the  hero  is,  indeed,  worthy  the  honors  of  a  demi-god. 
And,  if  Milton  be  not  absolutely  the  greatest  of  human  beings,  it 
is  hard  to  name  one  who  combines  so  many  features  of  God's  own 
image,  ideal  grandeur,  a  life  of  spotless  virtue,  heroic  endeavour 
and  constancy,  with  such  richness  of  gifts. 

We  cannot  speak  worthily  of  the  books  before  us.  They  have 
been,  as  they  will  be,  our  friends  and  teachers,  but  to  express 


THE  PROSE  WORKS  OF  MILTON.  37 

with  any  justice  what  they  are  to  us,  or  our  idea  of  what  they 
are  to  the  world  at  large — to  make  any  estimate  of  the  vast  fund 
of  pure  gold  they  contain  and  allow  for  the  residuum  of  local  and 
partial  judgment  and  human  frailty — to  examine  the  bearings 
of  various  essays  on  the  past  and  present  with  even  that  degree 
of  thought  and  justice  of  which  we  are  capable,  would  be  a  work 
of  months.  It  would  be  to  us  a  careful,  a  solemn,  a  sacred  task, 
and  not  in  anywise  to  be  undertaken  in  the  columns  of  a  daily 
paper.  Beside,  who  can  think  of  Milton  without  the  feeling 
which  he  himself  expresses  ? — 

"  He  who  would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  laud 
able  things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem ;  that  is,  a  composition  and  pat 
tern  of  the  best  and  honorablest  things ;  not  presuming  to  sing  high  praises  of 
heroic  men,  or  famous  cities,  unless  he  have  in  himself  the  experience  and  the 
practice  of  all  that  which  is  praiseworthy." 

We  shall,  then,  content  ourselves  with  stating  three  reasons 
which  at  this  moment  occur  to  us  why  these  Essays  of  Milton 
deserve  to  be  sought  and  studied  beyond  any  other  volumes  of 
English  prose  : 

1st.  He  draws  us  to  a  central  point  whither  converge  the  rays 
of  sacred  and  profane,  ancient  and  modern  Literature.  Those  who 
sit  at  his  feet  obtain  every  hour  glimpses  in  all  directions.  The 
constant  perception  of  principles,  richness  in  illustrations  and 
fullness  of  knowledge,  make  him  the  greatest  Master  we  have  in 
the  way  of  giving  clues  and  impulses.  His  plan  tempts  even 
very  timid  students  to  hope  they  may  thread  the  mighty  maze  of 
the  Past.  This  fullness  of  knowledge  only  a  genius  masculine 
and  divine  like  his  could  animate.  He  says,  in  a  letter  to  Diodati, 
written  as  late  as  his  thirtieth  year :  "  It  is  well  known,  and 
you  well  know,  that  I  am  naturally  slow  in  writing  and  adverse 
to  write."  Indeed  his  passion  for  acquisition  preceded  long  and 
far  outwent,  in  the  first  part  of  his  prime,  the  need  of  creation  or 
expression,  and,  probably,  no  era  less  grand  and  fervent  than  his 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


own  could  have  made  him  still  more  the  genius  than  the  scholar. 
But  he  was  fortunate  in  an  epoch  fitted  to  develop  him  to  his  full 
stature — an  epoch  rich  alike  in  thought,  action  and  passion,  in 
great  results  and  still  greater  beginnings.  There  was  fire  enough 
to  bring  the  immense  materials  he  had  collected  into  a  state  of 
fusion.  Still  his  original  bias  infects  the  pupil,  and  this  Master 
makes  us  thirst  for  Learning  no  less  than  for  Life. 

2d.  He  affords  the  highest  exercise  at  once  to  the  poetic  and 
reflective  faculties.  Before  us  move  sublime  presences,  the  types 
of  whole  regions  of  creation  :  God,  man,  and  elementary  spirits 
in  multitudinous  glory  are  present  to  our  consciousness.  But 
meanwhile  every  detail  is  grasped  and  examined,  and  strong 
daily  interests  mark  out  for  us  a  wide  and  plain  path  on  the  earth 
— a  wide  and  plain  path,  but  one  in  which  it  requires  the  most 
varied  and  strenuous  application  of  our  energies  to  follow  the 
rapid  and  vigorous  course  of  our  guide.  No  one  can  read  the 
Essays  without  feeling  that  the  glow  which  follows  is  no  mere 
nervous  exaltation,  no  result  of  electricity  from  another  mind 
under  which  he  could  remain  passive,  but  a  thorough  and  whole 
some  animation  of  his  own  powers.  We  seek  to  know,  to  act, 
and  to  be  what  is  possible  to  Man. 

3d.  Mr.  Griswold  justly  and  wisely  observes  : — "  Milton  is 
more  emphatically  American  than  any  author  who  has  lived  in 
the  United  States."  He  is  so  because  in  him  is  expressed  so 
much  of  the  primitive  vitality  of  that  thought  from  which  Ameri 
ca  is  born,  though  at  present  disposed  to  forswear  her  lineage  in 
so  many  ways.  He  is  the  purity  of  Puritanism.  He  understood 
the  nature  of  liberty,  of  justice — what  is  required  for  the  unim 
peded  action  of  conscience — what  constitutes  true  marriage,  and 
the  scope  of  a'manly  education.  He  is  one  of  the  Fathers  of  this 
Age,  of  that  new  Idea  which  agitates  the  sleep  of  Europe,  and  of 
which  America,  if  awake  to  the  design  of  Heaven  and  her  own 


THE  PROSE  WORKS   OF    MILTON.  39 

duty,  would  become  the  principal  exponent.  But  the  Father  is 
still  far  beyond  the  understanding  of  his  child. 

His  ideas  of  marriage,  as  expressed  in  the  treatises  on  Divorce, 
are  high  and  pure.  He  aims  at  a  marriage  of  souls.  If  he  in- 
cline  too  much  to  the  prerogative  of  his  own  sex,  it  was  from  that 
mannishness,  almost  the  same  with  boorishness,  that  is  evident  in 
men  of  the  greatest  and  richest  natures,  who  have  never  known 
the  refining  influence  of  happy,  mutual  love,  as  the  best  women 
evince  narrowness  and  poverty  under  the  same  privation.  In 
every  line  we  see  how  much  Milton  required  the  benefit  of  "  the 
thousand  decencies  that  daily  flow"  from  such  a  relation,  and  how 
greatly  he  would  have  been  the  gainer  by  it,  both  as  man  and  as 
genius.  In  his  mind  lay  originally  the  fairest  ideal  of  woman  ; 
to  see  it  realized  would  have  "finished  his  education."  His 
commonwealth  could  only  have  grown  from  the  perfecting  of 
individual  men.  The  private  means  to  such  an  end  he  rather 
hints  than  states  in  the  short  essay  to  Education.  They  are  such 
as  we  are  gradually  learning  to  prize.  Healthful  diet,  varied 
bodily  exercises,  to  which  we  no  longer  need  give  the  martial 
aim  he  proposed,  fit  the  rnind  for  studies  which  are  by  him  ar 
ranged  in  a  large,  plastic  and  natural  method. 

Among  the  prophetic  features  of  his  system  we  may  mention 
the  place  given  to  Agriculture  and  Music  : 

"  The  next  step  would  be  to  the  authors  on  agriculture — Cato,  Varro  and 
Columella — for  the  matter  is  most  easy ;  and  if  the  language  be  difficult  so 
much  the  better ;  it  is  not  a  difficulty  above  their  years.  And  here  will  be  an  oc 
casion  of  inciting,  and  enabling  them  hereafter  to  improve  the  tillage  of  their 
country,  to  recover  their  bad  soil,  and  to  remedy  the  waste  that  is  made  of  good ; 
for  this  was  one  of  Hercules'  praises." 

How  wise,  too,  his  directions  as  to  interspersing  the  study  with 
travel  arid  personal  observation  of  important  objects.  We  must 
have  methods  of  our.  own,  but  the  hints  we  might  borrow  from 
this  short  essay  of  Milton's  are  endless. 


40  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Then  of  music — 

"  The  interim  may,  both  with  profit  and  delight,  be  taken  up  in  recreating 
and  composing  their  travailed  spirits  with  the  solemn  and  divine  harmonies  of 
music  heard  or  learned ;  either  whilst  the  skillful  organist  plies  his  grave  and 
fancied  descant  in  lofty  fugues,  or  the  whole  symphony  with  artful  and  un 
imaginable  touches  adorn  and  grace  the  well-studied  chords  of  some  choice  com 
poser  ;  sometimes  the  lute  or  soft  organ-stop  waiting  on  elegant  voices,  either  to 
religious,  martial,  or  civil  ditties;  which,  if  wise  men  and  prophets  be  not  ex 
tremely  out,  have  a  great  power  over  disposition  and  manners  to  smoothe  and 
make  them  gentle  from  rustic  harshness  and  distempered  passions." 

He  does  not  mention  here  the  higher  offices  of  music,  but 
that  they  had  been  fulfilled  to  him  is  evident  in  the  whole  texture 
of  his  mind  and  his  page.  The  organ  was  his  instrument,  and 
there  is  not  a  strain  of  its  peculiar  music  that  may  not  somewhere 
be  traced  in  his  verse  or  prose.  Here,  too,  he  was  prophetical 
of  our  age,  of  which  Music  is  the  great  and  growing  art,  making 
deeper  revelations  than  any  other  mode  of  expression  now  adopted 
by  the  soul. 

After  these  scanty  remarks  upon  the  glories  of  this  sun-like 
mind,  let  us  look  for  a  moment  on  the  clouds  which  hung  about 
its  earthly  course.  Let  us  take  some  hints  from  his  letters  : — 

"It  is  often  a  subject  of  sorrowful  reflection  to  me,  that  those  with  whom  I 
have  been  either  fortuitously  or  legally  associated  by  contiguity  of  place  or  some 
tie  of  little  moment,  are  continually  at  hand  to  infest  my  home,  to  stun  me  with 
their  noise  and  waste  me  with  vexation,  while  those  who  are  endeared  to  me  by 
the  closest  sympathy  of  manners,  of  tastes  and  pursuits,  are  almost  all  withheld 
from  my  embrace  either  by  death  or  an  insuperable  distance  of  place ;  and  have 
for  the  most  part  been  so  rapidly  hurried  from  my  sight,  that  my  prospects  seem 
continually  solitary,  and  my  heart  perpetually  desolate." 

The  last  letter  in  the  volume  ends  thus  : 

"  What  you  term  policy,  and  which  I  wish  that  you  had  rather  called  patriotic 
piety,  has,  if  I  may  so  say,  almost  left  me,  who  was  charmed  with  so  sweet  a 
sound,  without  a  country.  *  *  *  I  will  conclude  after  first  begging  you, 
if  there  be  any  errors  in  the  diction  or  the  punctuation,  to  impute  it  to  the  boy 


THE  PROSE  WORKS  OF  MILTON.  4t 

who  wrote  this,  who  is  quite  ignorant  of  Latin,  and  to  whom.  I  was,  with  no 
little  vexation,  obliged  to  dictate  not  the  words,  but,  one  by  one,  the  letters  of  which 
they  were  composed." 

The  account  of  the  gradual  increase  of  his  blindness  is  inter 
esting,  physiologically  as  well  as  otherwise  : — 

"It  is  now,  I  think,  about  ten  years  (1654)  since  I  perceived  my  vision  to 
grow  weak  and  dull ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  I  was  troubled  with  pain  in  my 
kidneys  and  bowels,  accompanied  with  flatulency.  In  the  morning,  if  I  began 
to  read,  as  was  my  custom,  my  eyes  instantly  ached  intensely,  but  were  refresh 
ed  after  a  little  corporeal  exercise.  The  candle  which  I  looked  at  seemed  as  if 
it  were  encircled  by  a  rainbow.  Not  long  after  the  sight  in  the  left  part  of  the 
left  eye  (which  I  lost  some  years  before  the  other)  became  quite  obscured,  and 
prevented  me  from  discerning  any  object  on  that  side.  The  sight  in  my  other 
eye  has  now  been  gradually  and  sensibly  vanishing  away  for  about  three  years ; 
some  months  before  it  had  entirely  perished,  though  I  stood  motionless,  every 
thing  which  I  looked  at  seemed  in  motion  to  and  fro.  A  stiff  cloudy  vapor 
seemed  to  have  settled  on  my  forehead  and  temples,  which  usually  occasions  a 
sort  of  somnolent  pressure  upon  my  eyes,  and  particularly  from  dinner  till  even 
ing.  So  that  I  often  recollect  what  is  said  of  the  poet  Phineas  in  the  Ar- 
gonautics : 

c  A  stupor  deep  his  cloudy  temples  bound, 
And  when  he  waked  he  seemed  as  whirling  round, 
Or  in  a  feeble  trance  he  speechless  lay.' 

I  ought  not  to  omit  that,  while  I  had  any  sight  left,  as  soon  as  I  lay  down 
on  my  bed,  and  turned  on  either  side,  a  flood  of  light  used  to  gush  from  my  closed 
eyelids.  Then,  as  my  sight,  became  daily  more  impaired,  the  colors  became 
more  faint,  and  were  emitted  with  a  certain  crackling  sound ;  but,  at  present, 
every  species  of  illumination  being,  as  it  were,  extinguished,  there  is  diffused 
around  me  nothing  but  darkness,  or  darkness  mingled  and  streaked  with  an 
ashy  brown.  Yet  the  darkness  in  which  I  am  perpetually  immersed  seems  al 
ways,  both  by  night  and  day,  to  approach  nearer  to  a  white  than  black ;  and 
when  the  eye  is  rolling  in  its  socket,  it  admits  a  little  particle  of  light  as  through 
a  chink.  And  though  your  physician  may  kindle  a  small  ray  of  hope,  yet  I 
make  up  my  mind  to  the  malady  as  quite  incurable ;  and  I  often  reflect,  that  as 
the  wise  man  admonishes,  days  of  darkness  are  destined  to  each  of  us.  The 
darkness  which  I  experience,  less  oppressive  than  that  of  the  tomb,  is,  owing 
to  the  singular  goodness  of  the  Deity,  passed  amid  the  pursuits  of  literature  and 


42  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

the  cheering  salutations  of  friendship.  But  if,  as  it  is  written,  man  shall  not  live 
by  bread  alone,  but  by  every  word  that  proceedeth  from  the  mouth  of  God 
why  may  not  any  one  acquiesce  in  the  privation  of  his  sight,  when  God  has  so 
amply  furnished  his  mind  and  his  conscience  with  eyes  ?  While  He  so  tender 
ly  provides  for  me,  while  He  so  graciously  leads  me  by  the  hand  and  conducts 
me  on  the  way,  I  will,  since  it  is  His  pleasure,  rather  rejoice  than  repine  at  be 
ing  blind.  And  my  dear  Philura,  whatever  may  be  the  event.  I  wish  you  adieu 
with  no  less  courage  and  composure  than  if  I  had  the  eyes  of  a  lynx." 

Though  the  organist  was  wrapped  in  utter  darkness,  'only 
mingled  and  streaked  with  an  ashy  brown,'  still  the  organ  pealed 
forth  its  perpetual,  sublime  Te  Deum  !  Shall  we,  sitting  in  the 
open  sun-light,  dare  tune  our  humble  pipes  to  any  other  strain  ? 
Thou  may'st  thank  Him,  Milton,  for,  but  for  this  misfortune,  thou 
hadst  been  a  benefactor  to  the  great  and  strong  only,  but  now  to 
the  multitude  and  suffering  also  thy  voice  comes,  bidding  them 
*  bate  no  jot  of  heart  or  hope,'  with  archangelic  power  and  melody. 


THE  LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 

BY  HIS  SON ;  ROBERT  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 

"Biography  is  by  nature  the  most  universally  profitable,  universally  pleasant 
of  all  things ;  especially  biography  of  distinguished  individuals."  [Opinion  of 
the  sagacious  Hofrath  Henshrecke,  as  quoted  in  Sartor  Resartus.] 

IF  the  biography  of  a  distinguished  individual  be  thus  especially 
pleasant  a  matter,  how  most  of  all  pleasant  is  it  when  a  child  is 
found  worthy  to  erect  the  monument  with  which  the  world  es 
teems  his  father  worthy  to  be  honoured  !  We  see  that  it  is  no 
part  of  the  plan  of  the  universe  to  make  nature  or  talent  heredi 
tary.  The  education  of  circumstances  supersedes  that  of  sys 
tem,  unlocked  for  influences  disturb  the  natural  action  of  the  pa 
rent's  character  on  that  of  the  child ;  and  all  who  have  made 
even  a  few  observations  of  this  sort,  must  feel  that,  here  as  else 
where,  planting  and  watering  had  best  be  done  for  duty  or  love's 
sake,  without  any  sanguine  hopes  as  to  the  increase.  From  mis 
taken  notions  of  freedom,  or  an  ill-directed  fondness  for  experi 
mentalizing,  the  son  is  often  seen  to  disregard  the  precepts  or  ex 
ample  of  his  father  ;  and  it  is  a  matter  of  surprise  if  the  scion  is 
found  to  bear  fruit  of  a  similar,  not  to  say  equal  flavor,  with  the 
parent  tree. 

How  opposed  all  this  is  to  our  natural  wishes  and  expectations, 
(i.  e.,  to  our  ideal  of  a  state  of  perfection,)  is  evident  from  the 
pleasure  we  feel  when  family  relations  preserve  their  harmony, 
and  the  father  becomes  to  the  son  a  master  and  a  model — a  reve 
rend  teacher  and  a  favourite  study.  Such  a  happy  state  of 
things  makes  the  biography  before  us  very  attractive.  It  is  in 


44  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

itself  good,  though,  probably  not  as  interesting  or  impressive  as 
one  who  could  have  painted  the  subject  from  somewhat  a  greater 
distance  might  have  made  it.  The  affections  of  the  writer  are 
nowhere  obtruded  upon  us.  The  feeling  shown  towards  his 
amiable  and  accomplished  father  is  every  where  reverential  and 
tender,  nowhere  blind  or  exaggerated.  Sir  James  is  always, 
when  possible,  permitted  to  speak  for  himself;  and  we  are  not 
teased  by  attempts  to  heighten  or  alter  the  natural  effect  of  his 
thoughts  and  opinions.  The  impressions  he  produced  on  different 
minds  are  given  us  unmutilated  and  unqualified.  The  youthful 
errors,  and  the  one  great  defect  which  had  power  to  prevent  so 
rich  a  piece  of  creation  from  blooming  into  all  that  love  or  admi 
ration  could  have  wished,  are  neither  dissembled  nor  excused. 
Perhaps  here  Mr.  Mackintosh  kept  in  mind  his  father's  admirable 
remark  upon  Mrs.  Opie's  Memoir  of  her  husband.  "  One  pas 
sage  I  object  to  ;  where  she  makes  an  excuse  for  not  exposing  his 
faults.  She  ought  either  to  have  been  absolutely  silent,  or,  with 
an  intrepid  confidence  in  the  character  of  her  husband,  to  have 
stated  faults,  which  she  was  sure  would  not  have  been  dust  in 
the  balance,  placed  in  the  scale  opposite  to  his  merits." 

Indeed,  the  defect  here  was  not  to  be  hidden,  since  it  sapped 
the  noblest  undertakings  and  baffled  the  highest  aspirations  of  the 
gentle  and  generous  critic  ;  but  we  might  have  been  annoyed  by 
awkward  attempts  to  gloss  it  over,  which  would  have  prevented 
our  enjoying  in  full  confidence  the  record  of  so  many  virtues 
and  remarkable  attainments.  To  these  discerning  and  calm  jus 
tice  is  done  ;  more,  as  the  son  and  friend  felt,  was  not  needed. 
And,  upon  the  whole,  if  filial  delicacy  has  prevented  the  Life  of 
Sir  J.  M.  from  making  so  brilliant  and  entertaining  a  book  as  it 
might  be  in  the  hands  of  one  who  felt  at  liberty  to  analyze  more 
deeply  and  eulogize  more  eloquently,  our  knowledge  of  it  as  his 
tory  is  probably  more  correct,  and  of  greater  permanent  value. 

The  recollections  of  childhood  are  scanty.     We  see,  indeed, 


LIFE  OP  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH.  45 

an  extraordinary  boy,  but  get  little  light  as  to  what  helped  to 
make  him  what  he  was.  Generally  we  know,  that  if  there  be 
anything  of  talent  in  a  boy,  a  Scotch  mist  has  wonderful  power 
to  draw  it  out.  Add  to  this,  that  he  lived  much  in  solitude,  and 
on  the  banks  of  a  beautiful  lake.  To  such  means  of  intellectual 
developement  many  a  Swiss  and  many  a  Highlander  has  done  no 
visible,  or  at  least  so  far  as  this  world  knoweth,  no  immortal  hon 
our  ;  but  there  be  hardy  striplings,  who  expand  their  energies  in 
chasing  the  deer  and  the  chamois,  and  act  out  the  impulse,  poetic 
or  otherwise,  as  it  rises ;  while  the  little  Jamie  was  fed  on  books, 
and  taught  how  thought  and  feeling  may  be  hoarded  and  put  out 
at  interest  while  he  had  plenty  of  time  and  means  for  hoarding. 
Yet  is  the  precocity  natural  to  a  boy  of  genius  when  his  atten 
tion  is  so  little  dissipated,  and  the  sphere  of  exercising  his  childish 
energies  so  limited,  very  undesirable.  For  precocity  some  great 
price  is  always  demanded  sooner  or  later  in  life.  Nature  intended 
the  years  of  childhood  to  be  spent  in  perceiving  and  playing,  not 
in  reflecting  and  acting  ;  and  when  her  processes  are  hurried  or 
disturbed,  she  is  sure  to  exact  a  penalty.  Bacon  paid  by  moral 
perversion  for  his  premature  intellectual  developement.  Mozart 
gave  half  a  life  for  a  first  half  all  science  and  soul.  Mackintosh 
brought  out  so  wonderfully  his  powers  of  acquisition  at  the  ex 
pense  of  those  of  creation,  to  say  nothing  of  the  usual  fine  of 
delicate  health.  How  much  he  lived  out  of  books  we  know  not, 
but  he  tells  us  of  little  else.  The  details  of  his  best  plaything 
— the  boy-club  at  which  he  exercised  himself,  as  the  every-day 
boy  rides  the  great  horse,  or  the  young  Indian  tries  his  father's 
bow,  are  interesting.  At  an  early  age  he  went  to  Aberdeen, 
where  he  came  under  the  instruction  of  a  Dr.  Dunbar,  who.  if 
he  did  not  impart  much  positive  knowledge,  seems  to  have  been 
successful  in  breathing  into  his  pupil  that  strong  desire  of  know 
ing  and  doing,  which  is  of  more  value  than  any  thing  one  can  re 
ceive  from  another.  Here  too,  was  he  happy  in  that  friendship 


46  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

with  Robert  Hall,  which  probably  did  more  for  his  mind,  than  all 
the  teachings  of  all  his  youthful  years.  They  were  eighteen 
and  nineteen  years  of  age,  an  age  when  the  mind  is  hoping 
every  thing — fearing  nothing  ;  a  time  when  perfect  freedom  of 
intercourse  is  possible  ;  for  then  no  community  of  interests  is  ex 
acted  between  two  noble  natures,  except  that  of  aims  which  may 
be  carried  forward  into  infinity.  How  beautiful,  how  purely  in 
tellectual,  this  friendship  was,  may  be  best  felt  from  reading  the 
two  letters  Sir  James  wrote  many  years  after  to  Robert  Hall 
upon  his  recovery  from  derangement.  In  these  exquisite  letters, 
a  subject  which  would  seem  almost  too  delicate  for  an  angel's 
touch,  is  in  nowise  profaned ;  and  the  most  elevated,  as  well  as 
the  most  consoling  view  is  taken  with  the  confidence  of  one  who 
had  seen  into  the  very  depths  of  Hall's  nature.  There  is  no 
pity,  no  flattery — no  ill-advised  application  of  the  wise  counsels 
of  calm  hours  and  untried  spirits,  but  that  noble  and  sincere 
faith,  which  might  have  created  beneath  the  ribs  of  death  what 
it  expected  to  find  there.  The  trust  of  one  who  had  tried  the 
kernel,  and  knew  that  the  tree  was  an  oak  ;  and,  though  shat 
tered  by  lightning,  could  not  lose  its  royalty  of  nature. 

From  the  scene  of  metaphysical  and  religious  discussions, 
which  gave  such  a  bias  to  his  mind  and  character,  Sir  James 
went  to  lead  a  life  of  great  animal  and  mental  excitement  in 
Edinburgh.  Here  he  first  tourneyed  with  the  world,  and  came 
off  from  the  lists,  not  inglorious  if  not  altogether  victorious.  Al 
ready  he  had  loved  once  ;  but  this  seems,  like  his  after-attach 
ments,  not  to  have  been  very  deep  ;  and  as  he  ingenuously  con 
fesses,  declined  on  his  side,  without  any  particular  reason,  except, 
indeed,  that  his  character  was,  at  that  time  growing ;  which  is 
reason  enough.  A  man  so  intellectual,  so  versatile,  and  so 
easily  moved  as  he,  was  formed  to  enjoy  and  need  society,  both 
in  and  out  of  the  domestic  circle,  but  not  to  be  the  slave  of  the 
Passions,  nor  yet  their  master.  Perhaps  it  may  be  doubted 


LIFE  OP  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH.  47 

whether  any  man  can  become  the  master  of  the  passions  of 
others  without  having  some  time  gone  through  the  apprenticeship, 
i.  e.  the  slavery  to  his  own.  Sir  James  never  had  power  to  elec 
trify  at  will  a  large  body  of  men — he  had  not  stored  up  within 
the  dangerous  materials  for  the  "  lightning  of  the  mind" — and 
every  way  there  was  more  of  the  Apollo  than  the  Jupiter 
about  him. 

At  Edinburgh  he  made  many  friends,  acquired  and  evaporated 
many  prejudices,  learned  much,  and  talked  more.  Here  was 
confirmed  that  love,  which,  degenerating  into  a  need,  of  society, 
took  from  him  the  power  of  bearing  the  seclusion  and  solitary 
effort,  which  would  have  enabled  him  to  win  permanent  glory 
and  confer  permanent  benefits. 

Then  came  his  London  life,  rather  a  bright  page,  but  of  not 
more  happy  portent.  Compare  it  with  the  London  experiment  of 
the  poet  Crabbe,  made  known  to  us  not  long  since  by  the  pen  of 
his  son.  Do  we  not  see  here  a  comment  on  the  hackneyed  text, 
"  Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity,"  and  find  reason  to  admire  the 
impartiality  always  in  the  long  run  to  be  observed  in  the  distribu 
tion  of  human  lots  ?  To  view  the  thing  superficially,  Crabbe, 
ill-educated,  seemingly  fit  for  no  sphere,  certainly  unable  to  find 
any  for  which  he  thought  himself  fit,  labouring  on  poetry,  which 
the  most  thinking  public  (of  booksellers)  would  not  buy,  reduced 
to  his  last  fourpence,  and  apparently  for  ever  separated  from  his 
Myra,  was  a  less  prosperous  person  than  Mackintosh,  on  whose  wit 
and  learning  so  many  brilliant  circles  daily  feasted,  whose 
budding  genius  mature  statesmen  delighted  to  honour,  the  husband 
of  that  excellent  woman  he  has  so  beautifully  described,  and  the 
not  unsuccessful  antagonist  of  that  Burke  on  whom  Crabbe  had 
been  a  dependant.  Yet  look  more  deeply  into  the  matter,  and 
you  see  Crabbe  ripening  energy  of  purpose,  and  power  of  patient 
endurance,  into  an  even  heroic  strength  ;  nor  is  there  anywhere 
a  finer  monument  of  the  dignity  to  which  the  human  soul  can 


48  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

rise  independent  of  circumstances,  than  the  letter  which  he  wrote 
to  Burke  from  that  fit  of  depression  which  could  never  become 
abject ;  a  letter  alike  honourable  to  the  writer  and  him  to  whom 
it  was  addressed.  In  that  trial,  Crabbe,  not  found  wanting,  tested 
his  powers  to  bear  and  to  act — he  ascertained  what  he  would  do, 
and  it  was  done — Mackintosh,  squandering  at  every  step  the 
treasures  which  he  had  never  been  forced  to  count,  divided  in  his 
wishes,  imperfect  in  his  efforts,  wanting  to  himself,  though  so 
far  above  the  herd,  might  well  have  been  glad  to  leave  his 
flowery  paths  for  those  through  which  Crabbe  was  led  over  a 
stony  soil,  and  beneath  a  parching  sun,  but  still — upwards. 
Had  it  been  so,  what  a  noble  work  might  we  have  had  instead 
of  the  Vindicise  Gallicse !  A  bright  star  was  that,  but  we  might 
have  had  a  sun. 

Yet  had  the  publication  of  the  Vindiciae  been  followed  by  Sir 
James's  getting  into  parliament,  arid  becoming  the  English  great 
man,  the  mover  of  the  day,  the  minister  to  the  hour,  it  had  been 
much  ;  and  we  should  not  have  been  forward  to  express  regret, 
even  though  we  might  deem  his  natural  vocation  to  be  for  litera 
ture  and  philosophy.  Freedom  has  so  often  been  obliged  to  re 
treat  into  garrison  in  England,  that  the  honor  of  being  one  of  her 
sentinels  there  is  sufficient  for  a  life.  But  here  again  a  broken 
thread — a  beginning  not  followed  up.  He  goes  to  India,  and 
after  that  he  was  always  to  act  with  divided  soul,  and  his  life 
could  be  nothing  better  than  a  fragment ;  a  splendid  fragment 
indeed,  but  one  on  which  it  is  impossible  to  look  without  sorrow 
ful  thoughts  of  the  whole  that  might  have  been  erected  from 
materials  such  as  centuries  may  not  again  bring  together. 

The  mind  of  man  acknowledges  two  classes  of  benefactors — 
those  who  suggest  thoughts  and  plans,  and  those  who  develope 
and  fit  for  use  those  already  suggested.  We  are  more  ready  to 
be  grateful  to  the  latter,  whose  labours  are  more  easily  appre 
ciated  by  their  contemporaries ;  while  the  other,  smaller  class, 


LIFE  OP   SIR  JAMES   MACKINTOSH. 


really  comprises  intellects  of  the  higher  order,  gifted  with  a 
rapidity  and  fertility  of  conception  too  great  to  be  wholly  brought 
out  in  the  compass  of  a  short  human  life.  As  their  heirs  and 
pupils  bring  into  use  more  and  more  of  the  wealth  they  bequeathed 
to  the  world  in  unwrought  ore,  they  are  elevated  by  posterity 
from  the  rank  which  their  own  day  assigned  them  of  visionaries 
and  obscure  thinkers,  to  be  revered  almost  as  the  Demigods  of 
literature  and  science.  Notwithstanding  the  hours  of  gloom  and 
bitter  tears  by  which  such  lives  are  defaced,  they  are  happy  to  a 
degree,  which  those  who  are  born  to  minister  to  the  moment  can 
never  comprehend.  For  theirs  are  hours  of  "  deep  and  uncom- 
municable  joy,"  hours  when  the  oracle  within  boldly  predicts  the 
time  when  that  which  is  divine  in  them,  and  which  they  now  to 
all  appearance  are  breathing  out  in  vain,  shall  become  needful 
as  vital  air  to  myriads  of  immortal  spirit. 

But  Sir  James  Mackintosh  belonged  strictly  to  neither  of  these 
classes.  Much  he  learned — thought  much — collected  much 
treasure  ;  but  the  greater  part  of  it  was  buried  with  him.  Many 
a  prize,  hung  on  high  in  the  intellectual  firmament,  he  could  dis 
cern  with  eyes  carefully  purged  from  the  films  of  ignorance  and 
grossness ;  he  could  discern  the  steps  even  by  which  he  might 
have  mounted  to  the  possession  of  any  one  which  he  had  reso 
lutely  chosen  and  perse veringly  sought — but  this  he  did  not. 
And  though  many  a  pillar  and  many  a  stone  remain  to  tell  where 
he  dwelt  and  how  he  strove,  we  seek  in  vain  for  the  temple  of 
perfect  workmanship  with  which  Nature  meant  so  skilful  an 
architect  should  have  adorned  her  Earth. 

Sir  James  was  an  excellent  man  ;  a  man  of  many  thoughts — - 
of  varied  knowledge — of  liberal  views — almost  a  great  man  ;  but 
he  did  NOT  become  a  great  man,  when  he  might  by  more  earnest 
ness  of  parpose ;  he  knew  this,  and  could  not  be  happy.  This 
want  of  earnestness  of  purpose,  which  prevented  the  goodly  tree 

4 


50  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

from  bearing  goodly  fruit  in  due  season,  may  be  attributed  in  a 
great  measure  to  these  two  causes. 

First,  the  want  of  systematic  training  in  early  life.  Much  has 
been  well-written  and  much  ill-spoken  to  prove  that  minds  of 
great  native  energy  will  help  themselves,  that  the  best  attainments 
are  made  from  inward  impulse,  and  that  outward  discipline  is 
likely  to  impair  both  grace  and  strength.  Here  is  some  truth — 
more  error.  Native  energy  will  effect  wonders,  unaided  by  school 
or  college.  The  best  attainments  are  made  from  inward  impulse, 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  outward  discipline  of  any  liberality 
will  impair  grace  or  strength  ;  and  it  is  impossible  for  any  mind 
fully  and  harmoniously  to  ascertain  its  own  wants,  without  being 
made  to  resound  from  some  strong  outward  pressure.  Crabbe 
helped  himself,  and  formed  his  peculiar  faculties  to  great  perfec 
tion  ;  but  Coleridge  was  well  tasked — and  not  without  much  hard 
work  could  Southey  become  as  "  erudite  as  natural."  The 
flower  of  Byron's  genius  expanded  with  little  care  of  the  garden 
er  ;  but  the  greatest  observer,  the  deepest  thinker,  and  as  the 
greatest  artist,  necessarily  the  warmest  admirer  of  Nature  of  our 
time  (we  refer  to  Goethe),  grew  into  grace  and  strength  beneath 
the  rules  and  systems  of  a  disciplinarian  father.  Genius  will  live 
and  thrive  without  training,  but  it  does  not  the  less  reward  the 
watering-pot  and  pruning-knife.  Let  the  mind  take  its  own 
course,  and  it  is  apt  to  fix  too  exclusively  on  a  pursuit  or  set  of 
pursuits  to  which  it  will  devote  itself  till  there  is  not  strength  for 
others,  till  the  mind  stands  in  the  relation  to  a  well-balanced 
mind,  that  the  body  of  the  blacksmith  does  to  that  of  the  gladiator. 
We  are  not  in  favor  of  a  stiff,  artificial  balance  of  character,  of 
learning  by  the  hour,  and  dividing  the  attention  by  rule  and  line ; 
but  the  young  should  'be  so  variously  called  out  and  disciplined, 
lhat  they  may  be  sure  that  it  is  a  genuine  vocation,  and  not  an 
accidental  bias,  which  decides  the  course  on  reaching  maturity. 

Sir  James    Mackintosh   read    and   talked   through   his  early 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH.  51 

youth ;  had  he  been  induced  to  reproduce  in  writing  and  bear 
more  severe  mental  drudgery,  great  deeds  would  have  been  easy 
to  him  in  after-days.  He  acquired  such  a  habit  of  receiving 
from  books  and  reproducing  only  a  small  part  of  what  he 
received,  and  this,  too,  in  slight  and  daily  efforts,  that  the  stimu 
lus  of  others'  thoughts  became  necessary  for  his  comfort  to  an 
enervating  degree.  Books  cease  to  be  food,  and  become  no  bet 
ter  than  cigars,  or  gin  and  water,  when  indulged  in  to  excess  after 
a  certain  period.  It  is  distressing  to  see  half  the  hours  of  such  a 
man  as  Sir  James  Mackintosh  for  so  many  years  consumed  in 
reading  of  a  desultory,  though  always  interesting  nature.  We 
remember  no  diary  that  could  in  this  respect  vie  with  his,  unless 
it  be  Lady  M.  W.  Montague's  after  she  retired  from  the  world. 
For  her  it  was  very  suitable,  but  we  cannot  excuse  it  in  him,  even 
beneath  the  burning  Indian  sky.  We  cannot  help  wishing  he 
had  been  provided,  as  Mirabeau  always  was,  with  a  literary 
taster  and  crammer ;  or  that,  at  least,  he  might  have  felt  that  a 
man  who  means  to  think  and  write  a  great  deal,  must,  after  six 
and  twenty,  learn  to  read  with  his  fingers.  But  nothing  can  be 
more  luxuriously  indolent  than  his  style  of  reading.  Reading 
aloud  too,  every  evening,  was  not  the  thing  for  a  man  whom 
Nature  had  provided  with  so  many  tasks.  That  his  apprentice 
ship  had  not  been  sufficiently  severe,  he  himself  felt  and  some 
times  laments.  However,  the  copious  journals  of  his  reading  are 
most  entertaining,  full  of  penetrating  remarks  and  delicate  criti 
cal  touches.  What  his  friend  Lord  Jeffrey  mentions,  "  firmness 
of  mind,"  is  remarkable  here.  Here,  carelessly  dashed  off  in  a 
diary,  are  the  best  criticisms  on  Madame  de  Stael  that  we  have 
ever  seen.  She  had  that  stimulating  kind  of  talent  which  it  is 
hardly  possible  for  any  one  to  criticise  calmly  who  has  felt  its 
influence.  And,  as  her  pictures  of  life  are  such  as  to  excite  our 
hidden  sympathies,  a  very  detailed  criticism  upon  her  resembles 
a  personal  confession,  while  she  is  that  sort  of  writer  whom  it  is 


PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


very  easy  to  praise  or  blame  in  general  terms.  Sir  James  has 
seized  the  effect  produced  upon  her  works  by  the  difference  be 
tween  her  ideal  and  real  character.  This  is  one  great  secret  of 
her  eloquence  ;  to  this  mournful  tone,  which  vibrates  through  all 
her  brilliancy,  most  hearts  respond  without  liking  to  own  it. 
Here  Sir  James  drew  near  to  her ;  his  feminine  refinement  of 
thought  enabled  him  to  appreciate  hers,  while  a  less  impassioned 
temperament  enabled  him  coolly  to  criticise  her  dazzling  intui 
tions. 

How  much  is  comprehended  in  these  few  words  upon  Priestley. 

"I  have  just  read  Priestley's  Life  of  himself.  It  is  an  honest,  plain,  and 
somewhat  dry  account  of  a  well-spent  life.  But  I  never  read  such  a  narrative, 
however  written,  without  feeling  my  mind  softened  and  bettered,  at  least  for  a 
time.  Priestley  was  a  good  man,  though  his  life  was  too  busy  to  leave  him  leisure 
for  that  refinement  and  ardor  of  moral  sentiment,  which  have  been  felt  by  men  of 
less  blameless  life.  Frankness  and  disinterestedness  in  the  avowal  of  his  opinion 
were  his  point  of  honor.  In  other  respects  his  morality  was  more  useful  than 
brilliant.  But  the  virtue  of  the  sentimental  moralist  is  so  over-precarious  and 
ostentatious,  that  he  can  seldom  be  entitled  to  look  down  with  contempt  on  the 
steady,  though  homely  morals  of  the  household." 

And  those  upon  Mirabeau,  to  whom  it  is  so  very  difficult  for  a 
good  man  to  do  justice.  There  is  something  of  even  Soc ratio 
beauty  in  the  following  : 

"  The  letters  of  this  extraordinary  man  are  all  full  of  the  highest  flights  of 
virtuous  sentiment,  amidst  the  grossest  obscenities  and  the  constant  violation  of 
the  most  sacred  duties.  Yet  these  declarations  of  sentiment  were  not  insincere. 
They  were  only  useless,  and  perhaps  pernicious,  as  they  concealed  from  him 
that  depravity  which  he  could  scarcely  otherwise  have  endured. 

"  A  fair  recital  of  his  conduct  must  always  have  the  air  of  invective.  Yet  his 
mind  had  originally  grand  capabilities.  It  had  many  irregular  sketches  of  high 
virtue,  and  he  must  have  had  many  moments  of  the  noblest  moral  enthusiasm." 

We  say  Socratic  beauty,  for  we  know  no  one  since  the  Greek, 
who  seems  to  have  so  great  a  love  for  the  beautiful  in  human  na 
ture  with  such  a  pity — (a  pity  how  unlike  the  blindness  of  weak 


LIFE  OF   SIR  JAMES   MACKINTOSH.  53 

charity  or  hypocritical  tenderness) — for  the  odious  traits  which 
are  sometimes  so  closely  allied  with  it.  Sir  James,  allowing  for 
all  that  was  perverting  in  M  irabeau's  position  acting  upon  elements 
so  fraught  with  good  and  ill,  saw  him  as  he  was,  no  demon,  but 
a  miserable  man  become  savage  and  diseased  from  circum 
stances. 

We  should  like  to  enrich  this  article  with  the  highly  finished 
miniature  pictures  of  Fox,  Windham,  and  Francis  Xavier  ;  but 
here  is  little  room,  and  we  will  content  ourselves  with  these 
striking  remarks  upon  the  Hindoo  character. 

"  The  Rajpoots  are  the  representatives  of  Hinduism.  In  them  are  seen  all 
the  qualities  of  the  Hindu  race,  unmitigated  by  foreign  mixture,  exerted  with 
their  original  energy,  and  displayed  in  the  strongest  light.  They  exhibit  the 
genuine  form  of  a  Hindu  community,  formed  of  the  most  discordant  materials, 
and  combining  the  most  extraordinary  contrasts  of  moral  nature,  unconquerable 
adherence  to  native  opinions  and  usages,  with  servile  submission  to  any  foreign 
yoke  or  unbelieving  priesthood,  ready  to  suffer  martyrdom  for  the  most  petty 
observances  of  their  professed  faith ;  a  superstition  which  inspires  the  resolution 
to  inflict  or  to  suffer  the  most  atrocious  barbarities,  without  cultivating  any 
natural  sentiment  or  enforcing  any  social  duty ;  all  the  stages  in  the  progress 
of  society  brought  together  in  one  nation,  from  some  abject  castes  more  brutal 
than  the  savages  of  New  Zealand,  to  the  polish  of  manners  and  refinement 
of  character  conspicuous  in  the  upper  ranks ;  attachment  to  kindred  and  to 
home,  with  no  friendship,  and  no  love  of  country ;  good  temper  and  gentle  dis 
position  ;  little  active  cruelty,  except  when  stimulated  by  superstition ;  but  little 
sensibility,  little  compassion,  scarcely  any  disposition  to  relieve  suffering  or  re 
lieve  wrong  done  to  themselves  or  others.  Timidity,  with  its  natural  attendants, 
falsehood  and  meanness,  in  the  ordinary  relations  of  human  life,  joined  with  a 
capability  of  becoming  excited  to  courage  in  the  field,  to  military  enthusiasm,  to 
heroic  self-devotion.  Abstemiousness  in  some  respects  more  rigorous  than  that 
of  a  western  hermit,  in  a  life  of  intoxication ;  austerities  and  self-tortures 
almost  incredible,  practised  by  those  who  otherwise  wallow  in  gross  sensuality, 
childish  levity,  barefaced  falsehood,  no  faith,  no  constancy,  no  shame,  no  belief 
in  the  existence  of  justice." 

But  to  return.  Sir  James's  uncommon  talents  for  conversation 
proved  no  less  detrimental  to  his  glory  as  an  author  or  as  a 


54  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

statesman,  than  the  want  of  early  discipline.  Evanescent  as  are 
the  triumphs,  unsatisfactory  as  are  the  results  of  this  sort  of 
power,  they  are  too  intoxicating  to  be  despised  by  any  but  minds 
of  the  greatest  strength.  Madame  de  Stael  remarks :  "  Say  what 
you  will,  men  of  genius  must  naturally  be  good  talkers  ;  the  full 
mind  delights  to  vent  itself  in  every  way."  Undoubtedly  the 
great  author,  whether  of  plans  or  books,  will  not  be  likely  to  say 
uninteresting  things  ;  and  unless  early  habits  of  seclusion  have 
deprived  him  of  readiness,  and  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  come 
near  other  minds  in  the  usual  ways,  he  will  probably  talk  well. 
But  the  most  eloquent  talkers  cannot  always  converse  even 
pleasingly  ;  of  this  Madame  de  Stael  herself  was  a  striking  in 
stance.  To  take  up  a  subject  and  harangue  upon  it,  as  was  her 
wont,  requires  the  same  habits  of  mind  with  writing  ;  to  converse, 
as  could  Sir  J.  Mackintosh,  supposes  habits  quite  dissimilar. 
The  ready  tact  to  apprehend  the  mood  of  your  companions  and 
their  capacity  for  receiving  what  you  can  bestow,  the  skill  to 
touch  upon  a  variety  of  subjects  with  that  lightness,  grace,  and 
rapidity,  which  constantly  excite  and  never  exhaust  the  attention, 
the  love  for  sparkling  sallies,  the  playfulness  and  variety,  which 
make  a  man  brilliant  and  attractive  in  conversation,  are  the  re 
verse  of  the  love  of  method,  the  earnestness  of  concentration, 
and  the  onward  march  of  thought,  which  are  required  by  the 
higher  kinds  of  writing.  The  butterfly  is  no  less  active  than 
the  eagle  ;  his  wings  of  gauze  move  not  less  swiftly  than  those 
stronger  pinions,  he  loses  no  moment,  but  visits  every  flower  in 
the  garden,  and  exults  in  the  sunlight  which  he  enriches  :  mean 
while  the  noble,  but  not  more  beautiful,  winged  one  is  soaring 
steadily  upward  to  contemplate  the  source  of  light  from  the  high 
est  fields  of  ether.  Add  to  this,  that  writing  seems  dry  work, 
and  but  a  languid  way  of  transmitting  thought  to  one  accustomed 
to  the  electric  excitement  of  personal  intercourse  ;  as  on  the 
other  hand,  conversation  is  generally  too  aimless  and  superficial 


LIFE  OF   SIR  JAMES   MACKINTOSH.  55 

to  suit  one,  whose  mental  training  has  been  severe  and  indepen 
dent  of  immediate  action  from  other  intellects. 

Every  kind  of  power  is  admirable,  and  indefinitely  useful ; 
if  a  man  be  born  to  talk,  and  can  be  satisfied  to  bring  out  his 
thoughts  in  conversation  only  or  chiefly,  let  him.  Sir  James  did 
so  much  in  this  way,  stimulated  so  many  young,  enchanted  and 
refined  so  many  mature  minds,  blessed  daily  so  many  warm 
hearts ;  as  a  husband  and  a  father,  he  appears  so  amiable,  prob 
ably  so  much  more  so  than  he  would  if  his  ambition  had  glowed 
with  greater  intensity  ;  what  he  did  write,  was  so  excellent,  and 
so  calculated  to  promote  the  best  kind  of  culture,  that  if  he  could 
have  been  satisfied,  we  might ;  but  he  could  not ;  we  find  him 
self  in  his  journals  perpetually  lamenting  that  his  life  was  one  of 
"  projects  and  inactivity."  For  even  achievements  like  his  will 
seem  mere  idleness  to  one  who  has  the  capacity  of  achieving  and 
doing  so  much  more.  Man  can  never  come  up  to  his  ideal  stand 
ard  ;  it  is  the  nature  of  the  immortal  spirit  to  raise  that  standard 
higher  and  higher  as  it  goes  from  strength  to  strength,  still  upward 
and  onward.  Accordingly  the  wisest  and  greatest  men  are  ever 
the  most  modest.  Yet  he  who  feels  that  if  he  is  not  what  he 
would,  he  "  has  done  what  he  could,"  is  not  without  a  serene 
self-complacency,  (how  remote  from  self-sufficiency !)  the  want 
of  which  embittered  Sir  James's  latter  years.  Four  great  tasks 
presented  themselves  to  him  in  the  course  of  his  life,  which,  per 
haps,  no  man  was  better  able  to  have  performed.  Nature  seems 
to  have  intended  him  for  a  philosopher  ;  since,  to  singular  deli 
cacy  and  precision  of  observation,  he  added  such  a  tendency  to 
generalization.  In  metaphysics  he  would  have  explored  far, 
and  his  reports  would  have  claimed  our  confidence  ;  since  his 
candour  and  love  of  truth  would  have  made  it  impossible  for  him 
to  become  the  slave  of  system.  He  himself,  and  those  who  knew 
him  best,  believed  this  to  be  his  forte.  Had  he  left  this  aside, 
and  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  politics,  he  would  have  been, 


56  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

if  not  of  the  first  class  of  statesmen,  one  of  the  first  in  the  second 
class. 

He  went  to  India,  and  that  large  piece  taken  out  of  the  best 
part  of  his  life  made  this  also  impossible.  Had  he  then  devoted 
his  leisure  hours  to  researches  on  Indian  antiquities,  how  much 
might  he  have  done  in  that  vast  field,  where  so  small  a  portion  of 
the  harvest  is  yet  gathered  in.  Nobody  was  better  qualified  to  dis 
regard  the  common  prejudices  with  respect  to  the  representations 
of  the  Hindoos,  to  find  a  clue  which  should  guide  him  through 
the  mighty  maze  of  Indian  theology,  and  remove  the  world  of 
rubbish,  beneath  which  forms  radiant  in  truth  and  beauty  lie 
concealed.  His  fondness  for  the  history  of  opinion  would  here 
have  had  full  scope,  and  he  might  have  cast  a  blaze  of  light 
upon  a  most  interesting  portion  of  the  annals  of  mankind.  This 
"  fair  occasion,"  too,  he  let  slip,  and  returned  to  Europe,  broken 
in  health  and  spirits,  and  weakened,  as  any  man  must  be,  who 
has  passed  so  many  years  in  occupations  which  called  for  only  so 
small  a  portion  of  his  powers. 

Did  he  then  fix  his  attention  on  that  other  noble  aim  which 
rose  before  him,  and  labour  to  become  for  ever  illustrious  as 
the  historian  of  his  country  ?  No  !  Man  may  escape  from  every 
foe  and  every  difficulty,  except  what  are  within — himself.  Sir 
James,  as  formerly,  worked  with  a  divided  heart  and  will  ;  and 
Fame  substituted  a  meaner  coronal  for  the  amaranthine  wreath 
she  had  destined  for  his  brow.  Greatness  was  not  thrust  upon  him 
and  he  wanted  earnestness  of  purpose  to  achieve  it  for  himself. 

Let  us  now  turn  from  the  sorrowful  contemplation  of  his  one 
fault,  to  the  many  endearing  or  splendid  qualities  intimately  con 
nected  with,  or  possibly  fostered  by  this  very  fault.  For  so  it  is, 
"  what  makes  our  virtues  thrive  openly,  will  also,  if  we  be  not 
watchful,  make  our  faults  thrive  in  secret ;"  and  vice  versa. 
Let  us  admire  his  varied  knowledge,  his  refinement  of  thought, 
which  was  such  that  only  his  truly  philosophic  turn  could  have 


LIFE  OP  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH.  57 

prevented  it  from  degenerating  into  sophistry  ;  his  devotion,  even 
more  tender  than  enthusiastic,  to  the  highest  interests  of  hu 
manity  ;  that  beautiful  fairness  of  mind,  in  which  he  was  un 
equalled,  a  fairness  which  evidenced  equal  modesty,  generosity, 
and  pure  attachment  to  truth  ;  a  fairness  which  made  him  more 
sensible  to  every  one's  merits,  and  more  ready  to  perceive  the  ex 
cuses  for  every  one's  defects  than  his  own  ;  a  fairness  not  to  be 
disturbed  by  party  prejudice  or  personal  injury  ;  a  fairness  in 
which  nobody,  except  Sir  W.  Scott,  who  was  never  deeply  tried 
as  he  was,  can  compare  with  him.  In  what  other  journal  shall 
we  find  an  entry  like  the  following,  the  sincerity  of  which  no 
one  can  doubt : — 

" has,  I  think,  a  distaste  for  me,  which  I  believe  to  be  natural  to  the 

family.  I  think  the  worse  of  nobody  for  such  a  feeling ;  indeed,  I  often  feel  a 
distaste  for  myself;  I  am  sure  I  should  not  esteem  my  own  character  in  another 
person.  It  is  more  likely  that  I  should  have  disrespectable  or  disagreeable 
qualities  than  that should  have  an  unreasonable  antipathy." 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Sharpe  on  the  changes  in  his  own  opinions, 
exhibits  this  trait  to  a  remarkable  degree. 

It  has  been  said  that  had  he  been  less  ready  to  confess  his  own 
mistakes  of  judgment,  and  less  careful  to  respect  the  intentions 
of  others,  more  arrogant  in  his  pretensions  and  less  gentle  to 
wards  his  opponents,  he  would  have  enjoyed  greater  influence, 
and  been  saved  from  many  slights  and  disappointments.  Here, 
at  least,  is  no  room  for  regret. 

We  have  not,  of  course,  attempted  any  thing  like  a  compre 
hensive  criticism  upon  the  Life.  The  range  of  Sir  James's  con 
nexions  and  pursuits  being  so  wide,  and  the  history  of  his  mind 
being  identical  with  that  of  the  great  political  movement  of  his 
day,  a  volume  would  not  give  more  than  verge  enough  for  all  the 
thoughts  it  naturally  suggests.  If  these  few  reflections  excite 
the  attention  of  some  readers  and  are  acceptable  to  others,  as 
sympathy,  they  will  attain  their  legitimate  object. 

4* 


MODERN   BRITISH   POETS. 

"  Poets — dwell  on  earth, 
To  clothe  whate'er  the  soul  admires  and  loves, 
With  language  and  with  numbers." 

AKENSIDE. 

NINE  muses  were  enough  for  one  Greece,  and  nine  poets  are 
enough  for  one  country,  even  in  the  nineteenth  century.  And 
these  nine  are  "  a  sacred  nine,"  who,  if  not  quite  equal  to 
Shakspeare,  Spenser,  and  Milton,  are  fairly  initiated  masters  of 
the  wand  and  spell ;  and  whose  least  moving  incantation  should 
have  silenced  that  blasphemer,  who  dared  to  say,  in  the  pages  of 
Blackwood,  that  "  all  men,  women,  and  children,  are  poets,  saving 
only — those  who  write  verses." 

First — There  is  CAMPBELL — a  poet ;  simply  a  poet — no  philo 
sopher.  His  forte  is  strong  conception,  a  style,  free  and  bold ; 
occasionally  a  passage  is  ill-finished,  but  the  lights  and  shades 
are  so  happily  distributed,  the  touch  so  masterly  and  vigorous, 
with  such  tact  at  knowing  where  to  stop,  that  we  must  look  for 
the  faults  in  order  to  see  them.  There  is  little,  if  any,  origin 
ality  of  thought ;  no  profound  meaning ;  no  esoteric  charm, 
which  you  cannot  make  your  own  on  a  first  reading ;  yet  we 
have  all  probably  read  Campbell  many  times.  It  is  his  manner 
which  we  admire ;  and  in  him  we  enjoy  what  most  minds  enjoy 
most,  not  new  thoughts,  new  feelings,  but  recognition  of 

"  What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed." 

Thus,  in  Campbell's  best  productions  we  are  satisfied,  not 
stimulated.  "  The  Mariners  of  England"  is  just  what  it  should 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  59 

be  ; — for  we  find  free,  deep  tones,  from  the  seaman's  breast, 
chorded  into  harmony  by  an  artist  happy  enough  to  feel  nature — 
wise  enough  to  follow  nature.  "  Lochiel"  is  what  it  should  be, 
a  wild,  breezy  symphony,  from  the  romantic  Highlands.  There 
are,  in  fact,  flat  lines  and  tame  passages  in  "  Lochiel ;"  but  I 
should  never  have  discovered  them,  if  I  had  not  chanced  to  hear 
that  noble  composition  recited  by  a  dull  schoolboy.  The  ideal 
izing  tendency  in  the  reader,  stimulated  by  the  poet's  real  mag 
netic  power,  would  prevent  their  being  perceived  in  a  solitary 
perusal,  and  a  bright  schoolboy  would  have  been  sufficiently 
inspired  by  the  general  grandeur  of  the  piece  ;  to  have  known 
how  to  sink  such  lines  as 

"Welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock, 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock ;" 

or, 

"  Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old,  wavering  sight;" 

and  a  few  other  imperfections  in  favour  of 

"Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn," 

and  other  striking  passages. 

As  for  the  sweet  tale  of  "  Wyoming,"  the  expression  of  the 
dying  Gertrude's  lips  is  not  more  "  bland,  more  beautiful,"  than 
the  music  of  the  lay  in  which  she  is  embalmed.  It  were  difficult 
to  read  this  poem,  so  holy  in  its  purity  and  tenderness,  so  deli- 
ciously  soft  and  soothing  in  its  coloring,  without  feeling  better  and 
happier. 

The  feeling  of  Campbell  towards  women  is  refined  and  deep. 
To  him  they  are  not  angels — not,  in  the  common  sense,  heroines  ; 
but  of  a  "  perfect  woman  nobly  planned,"  he  has  a  better  idea 
than  most  men,  or  even  poets.  Witness  one  of  his  poems,  which 
has  never  received  its  meed  of  fame  ;  I  allude  to  Theodric.  Who 
can  be  insensible  to  the  charms  of  Constance,  the  matron  counter 
part  to  Gertrude's  girlhood  ? 


60  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

"To  know  her  well, 

Prolonged,  exalted,  bound  enchantment's  spell ; 
For  with  affections  warm,  intense,  refined, 
She  mixed  such  calm  and  holy  strength  of  mind, 
That,  like  Heaven's  image  in  the  smiling  brook, 
Celestial  peace  was  pictured  in  her  look ; 
Her's  was  the  brow  in  trials  unperplexed, 
That  cheered  the  sad  and  tranquillized  the  vexed ; 
She  studied  not  the  meanest  to  eclipse, 
And  yet  the  wisest  listened  to  her  lips ; 
She  sang  not,  knew  not  Music's  magic  skill, 
But  yet  her  voice  had  tones  that  swayed  the  will." 
****** 

"  To  paint  that  being  to  a  grovelling  mind 
Were  like  portraying  pictures  to  the  blind. 
'Twas  needful  even  infectiously  to  feel 
Her  temper's  fond,  and  firm,  and  gladsome  zeal, 
To  share  existence  with  her,  and  to  gain 
Sparks  from  her  love's  electrifying  chain. 
Of  that  pure  pride,  which,  lessening  to  her  breast 
Life's  ills,  gave  all  its  joys  a  treble  zest, 
Before  the  mind  completely  understood 
That  mighty  truth — how  happy  are  the  good ! 
Even  when  her  light  forsook  him,  it  bequeathed 
Ennobling  sorrow :  and  her  memory  breathed 
A  sweetness  that  survived  her  living  days, 
As  odorous  scents  outlast  the  censer's  blaze. 
Or  if  a  trouble  dimmed  their  golden  joy, 
'Twas  outward  dross  and  not  infused  alloy ; 
Tlieir  home  knew  but  affection's  look  and  speech, 
A  little  Heaven  beyond  dissension's  reach. 
But  midst  her  kindred  there  was  strife  and  gall; 
Save  one  congenial  sister,  they  were  all 
Such  foils  to  her  bright  intellect  and  grace, 
As  if  she  had  engrossed  the  virtue  of  her  race ; 
Her  nature  strove  th'  unnatural  feuds  to  heal, 
Her  wisdom  made  the  weak  to  her  appeal ; 
And  though  the  wounds  she  cured  were  soon  unclosed, 
Unwearied  still  her  kindness  interposed." 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  61 

— — \£TT 

The  stanzas  addressed  to  John  Kemblc  I  have  never  heard 
admired  to  the  fulness  of  my  feeling.  Can  any  thing  be  finer 
than  this  ? 

"  A  majesty  possessed 
His  transport's  most  impetuous  tone; 

And  to  each  passion  of  his  breast 
The  graces  gave  their  zone." 


Who  forgets  that  white  discrowned  head, 
Those  bursts  of  reason's  half-extinguished  glare, 

Those  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed 
In  doubt  more  touching  than  despair, 
If  'twas  reality  he  felt  T 


or, 


'•'  Fair  as  some  classic  dome, 

Robust  and  richly  graced, 
Your  Kemble's  spirit  was  the  home 

Of  genius  and  of  taste. — 
Taste  like  the  silent  dial's  power, 

That,  when  supernal  light  is  given, 
Can  measure  inspiration's  hour 

And  tell  its  height  in  Heaven. 
At  once  ennobled  and  correct, 

His  mind  surveyed  the  tragic  page ; 
And  what  the  actor  could  effect, 

The  scholar  could  presage." 

These  stanzas  are  in  Campbell's  best  style.  Had  he  possessed 
as  much  lyric  flow  as  force,  his  odes  might  have  vied  with  those 
of  Collins.  But,  though  soaring  upward  on  a  strong  pinion,  his 
flights  are  never  prolonged,  and  in  this  province,  which  earnest 
ness  and  justness  of  sentiment,  simplicity  of  imagery,  and  a  pic 
turesque  turn  in  expression,  seem  to  have  marked  out  as  his  own, 
he  is  surpassed  by  Shelley,  Coleridge,  and  Wordsworth,  from  their 
greater  power  of  continuous  self-impulse. 


62  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

I  do  not  know  where  to  class  Campbell  as  a  poet.  What  he 
has  done  seems  to  be  by  snatches,  and  his  poems  might  have  been 
published  under  the  title  of  "  Leisure  Hours,  or  Recreations  of  a 
Great  Man."  They  seem  like  fragments,  not  very  heedfully 
stricken  off  from  the  bed  of  a  rich  quarry  ;  for,  with  all  their 
individual  finish,  there  is  no  trace  of  a  fixed  purpose  to  be  dis 
cerned  in  them.  They  appear  to  be  merely  occasional  effusions, 
like  natural  popular  poetry  ;  but,  as  they  are  written  by  an  ac 
complished  man  in  these  modern  days  of  design  and  system,  we 
are  prompted  to  look  for  an  aim,  a  prevading  purpose.  We  shall 
not  find  it.  Campbell  has  given  us  much  delight ;  if  he  has 
not  directly  stimulated  our  thoughts,  he  has  done  so  much  to 
refine  our  tastes,  that  we  must  respectfully  tender  the  poetic 
garland. 

And  thou,  ANACREON  MOORE,  sweet  warbler  of  Erin  !  What 
an  ecstasy  of  sensation  must  thy  poetic  life  have  been !  Certainly 
the  dancing  of  the  blood  never  before  inspired  so  many  verses. 
Moore's  poetry  is  to  literature,  what  the  compositions  of  Rossini 
are  to  music.  It  is  the  hey-day  of  animal  existence,  embellished 
by  a  brilliant  fancy,  and  ardent  though  superficial  affections. 
The  giddy  flush  of  youthful  impulse  empurples  the  most  pensive 
strains  of  his  patriotism,  throbs  in  his  most  delicate  touches  of 
pathos,  and  is  felt  as  much  in  Tara's  Halls  as  in  the  description 
of  the  Harem.  His  muse  is  light  of  step  and  free  of  air,  yet  not 
vulgarly  free ;  she  is  not  a  little  excited,  but  it  is  with  quaffing 
the  purest  and  most  sparkling  champagne.  There  is  no  tern- 
perance,  no  chastened  harmony  in  her  grief  or  in  her  joy.  His 
melodies  are  metrically  perfect ;  they  absolutely  set  themselves 
to  music,  and  talk  of  spring,  and  the  most  voluptuous  breath  of  the 
blossom-laden  western  breeze,  and  the  wildest  notes  of  the  just 
returning  birds.  For  his  poetic  embodying  of  a  particular  stage 
of  human  existence,  and  his  scintillating  wit,  will  Moore  chiefly 
be  remembered.  He  has  been  boon-companion  and  toast-master 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  63 

to  the  youth  of  his  day.  This  could  not  last.  When  he  ceased 
to  be  young,  and  to  warble  his  own  verses,  their  fascination  in  a 
great  measure  disappeared.  Many  are  now  not  more  attractive 
than  dead  flowers  in  a  close  room.  Anacreon  cannot  really 
charm  when  his  hair  is  gray ;  there  is  a  time  for  all  things,  and 
the  gayest  youth  loves  not  the  Epicurean  old  man.  Yet  he.  too, 
is  a  poet ;  and  his  works  will  not  be  suffered  to  go  out  of  print, 
though  they  are,  even  now,  little  read.  Of  course  his  reputation 
as  a  prose  writer  is  another  matter,  and  apart  from  our  present 
purpose. 

The  poetry  of  WALTER  SCOTT  has  been  superseded  by  his  prose, 
yet  it  fills  no  unimportant  niche  in  the  literary  history  of  the 
last  half  century,  and  may  be  read,  at  least  once  in  life,  with 
great  pleasure.  "  Marmion,"  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel," 
&c.,  cannot,  indeed,  be  companions  of  those  Sabbath  hours  of 
which  the  weariest,  dreariest  life  need  not  be  destitute,  for  their 
bearing  is  not  upon  the  true  life  of  man,  his  immortal  life.  Cole 
ridge  felt  this  so  deeply,  that  in  a  lately  published  work  (Letters, 
Conversations,  &c.,  of  S.  T.  Coleridge)  he  is  recorded  to  have 
said,  "  not  twenty  lines  of  Scott's  poetry  will  ever  reach  pos 
terity  ;  it  has  relation  to  nothing."  This  is  altogether  too  harsh, 
and  proves  that  the  philosopher  is  subject  to  narrowness  and  par 
tial  views,  from  his  peculiar  mode  of  looking  at  an  object,  equally 
with  the  mere  man  of  taste.  These  poems  are  chiefly  remark 
able  for  presenting  pictures  of  particular  epochs,  and,  considered 
in  that  light,  truly  admirable.  Much  poetry  has  come  down  to 
us,  thus  far,  whose  interest  is  almost  exclusively  of  the  same  na 
ture  ;  in  which,  at  least,  moral  conflict  does  not  constitute  the 
prominent  interest. 

To  one  who  has  read  Scott's  novels  first,  and  looks  in  his 
poems  for  the  same  dramatic  interest,  the  rich  humor,  the  tragic 
force,  the  highly  wrought  yet  flowing  dialogue,  and  the  countless 
minutiee  in  the  finish  of  character,  they  must  bring  disappoint- 


64  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

"merit.  For  their  excellence  consists  in  graphic  descriptions  of 
architecture  and  natural  scenery,  a  happy  choice  of  subject,  and 
effective  grouping  of  slightly  sketched  characters,  combined  with 
steady  march  and  great  simplicity  of  narrative.  Here  and  there 
sentiments  are  introduced,  always  just  and  gracefully  worded, 
but  without  that  delicacy  of  shading,  fine  and  harmonious  as 
Nature's  workmanship  in  the  rose-leaf,  which  delights  us  in  his 
prose  works.  It  is,  indeed,  astonishing  that  he  should  lose  so 
much  by  a  constraint  so  lightly  worn  ;  for  his  facility  of  versifi 
cation  is  wonderful,  his  numbers  seem  almost  to  have  coined 
themselves,  and  you  cannot  detect  any  thing  like  searching 
for  a  word  to  tag  a  verse  withal.  Yet  certain  it  is,  we  receive 
no  adequate  idea  of  the  exuberance  and  versatility  of  his  genius, 
or  his  great  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  from  his  poetry. 
His  lore  is  there  as  profusely  displayed,  his  good  sense  and  tact 
as  admirable,  as  in  his  prose  works ;  and,  if  only  on  account  of 
their  fidelity  of  description,  these  poems  are  invaluable,  and  must 
always  hold  a  place  in  English  literature.  They  are  interesting 
too,  as  giving  a  more  complete  idea  of  the  character  and  habits  of 
one  of  our  greatest  and  best  men,  than  his  remarkable  modesty 
would  permit  the  public  to  obtain  more  directly.  His  modes  of  life, 
his  personal  feelings,  are  no  where  so  detailed,  as  in  the  epistles 
perfixed  to  the  cantos  of  Marmion.  These  bring  us  close  to  his 
side,  and  leading  us  with  him  through  the  rural  and  romantic 
scenes  he  loved,  talk  with  us  by  the  way  of  all  the  rich  asso 
ciations  of  which  he  was  master.  His  dogs  are  with  him  ;  he 
surveys  these  dumb  friends  with  the  eye  of  a  sportsman  and  a 
philosopher,  and  omits  nothing  in  the  description  of  them  which 
could  interest  either.  An  old  castle  frowns  upon  the  road  ;  he 
bids  its  story  live  before  you  with  all  the  animation  of  a  drama 
and  the  fidelity  of  a  chronicle.  Are  topics  of  the  day  introduced  ? 
He  states  his  opinions  with  firmness  and  composure,  expresses 
his  admiration  with  energy,  and,  where  he  dissents  from  those  he 


MODERN  BRITISH   POETS.  65 

addresses,  does  so  with  unaffected  candor  and  cordial  benignity. 
Good  and  great  man  !  More  and  more  imposing  as  nearer  seen ; 
thou  art  like  that  product  of  a  superhuman  intellect,  that  stately 
temple,  which  rears  its  head  in  the  clouds,  yet  must  be  studied 
through  and  through,  for  months  and  years,  to  be  appreciated  in 
all  its  grandeur. 

Nothing  surprises  me  more  in  Scott's  poetry,  than  that  a  per- 
son  of  so  strong  imagination  should  see  every  thing  so  in  detail 
as  he  does.  Nothing  interferes  with  his  faculty  of  observation. 
No  minor  part  is  sacrificed  to  give  effect  to  the  whole  ;  no  pecu 
liar  light  cast  on  the  picture :  you  only  see  through  a  wonder 
fully  far-seeing  and  accurately  observing  pair  of  eyes,  and  all 
this  when  he  has  so  decided  a  taste  for  the  picturesque.  Take, 
as  a  specimen,  the  opening  description  in  Marmion. 

THE  CASTLE. 

"  Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone  ; 
The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep, 
The  loophole  grates,  where  captives  weep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  lustre  shone ; — 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height ; 
Their  armor,  as  it  caught  the  rays, 
Flashed  back  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 
St.  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay, 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung ; 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 


PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search, 

The  castle  gates  were  barred, 
Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch, 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march, 

The  warden  kept  his  guard, 
Low  humming,  as  he  passed  along, 
Some  ancient  border  gathering  song." 

How  picturesque,  yet  how  minute  !  Not  even  Wordsworth,  de 
voted  as  he  is  to  nature,  and  to  visible  as  well  as  invisible  truth, 
can  compare  with  Scott  in  fidelity  of  description.  Not  even 
Crabbe,  that  least  imaginative  of  poets,  can  compare  with  him 
for  accuracy  of  touch  and  truth  of  colouring.  Scott's  faculties 
being  nicely  balanced,  never  disturbed  one  another ;  we  per 
ceive  this  even  more  distinctly  in  his  poetry  than  in  his  prose, 
perhaps  because  less  excited  while  reading  it. 

I  have  said  that  CRABBE  was  the  least  imaginative  of  poets. 
He  has  no  imagination  in  the  commonly  received  sense  of  the 
term  ;  there  is  nothing  of  creation  in  his  works  ;  nay,  I  dare  af 
firm,  in  opposition  to  that  refined  critic,  Sir  James  Mackintosh, 
that  there  was  no  touch  of  an  idealizing  tendency  in  his  mind  ; 
yet  he  is  a  poet ;  he  is  so  through  his  calm  but  deep  and  steady 
sympathy  with  all  that  is  human  ;  he  is  so  by  his  distinguished 
power  of  observation  ;  he  is  so  by  his  graphic  skill.  No  litera 
ture  boasts  an  author  more  individual  than  Crabbe.  He  is 
unique.  Moore  described  him  well. 

"  Grand  from  the  truth  that  reigns  o'er  all, 
The  unshrinking  truth  that  lets  her  light 
Through  life's  low,  dark,  interior  fall, 
Opening  the  whole  severely  bright. 
Yet  softening,  as  she  frowns  along, 
O'er  scenes  which  angels  weep  to  see, 
Where  truth  herself  hajf  veils  the  wrong 
In  pity  of  the  misery." 

I  could  never  enter  into  the  state  of  a  mind  which  could  sup- 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  67 

port  viewing  life  and  human  nature  as  Crabbe's  did,  softened  by 
no  cool  shadow,  gladdened  by  no  rose-light.  I  wish  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  when  expressing  his  admiration  for  the  poetry  of  Crabbe, 
had  told  us  more  distinctly  the  nature  of  the  impressions  he  re 
ceived  from  it.  Sir  Walter,  while  he  observes  with  equal  accu 
racy,  is  sure  to  detect  something  comic  or  something  lovely,  some 
pretty  dalliance  of  light  and  shade  in  the  "  low,  dark  interior" 
of  the  most  outwardly  desolate  hovel.  Cowper  saw  the  follies 
and  vices  of  mankind  as  clearly,  but  his  Christian  love  is  an  ever 
softly-murmuring  under-current,  which  relieves  the  rude  sounds 
of  the  upper  world.  Crabbe  in  his  view  of  the  human  mind 
may  be  compared  with  Cowper  or  Scott,  as  the  anatomist,  in  his 
view  of  the  human  form,  may  be  compared  with  the  painter  or 
sculptor.  Unshrinking,  he  tears  apart  that  glorious  fabric  which 
has  been  called  "  the  crown  of  creation  ;"  he  sees  its  beauty  and 
its  strength  with  calm  approval,  its  weaknesses,  its  liability  to 
disease,  with  stern  pity  or  cold  indignation.  His  nicely  dissected 
or  undraped  virtues  are  scarcely  more  attractive  than  vices,  and, 
with  profound  knowledge  of  the  passions,  not  one  ray  of  passion 
ate  enthusiasm  casts  a  glow  over  the  dramatic  recitative  of  his 
poems. 

Crabbe  has  the  true  spirit  of  the  man  of  science ;  he  seeks 
truth  alone,  content  to  take  all  parts  of  God's  creations  as  they 
are,  if  he  may  but  get  a  distinct  idea  of  the  laws  which  govern 
them.  He  sees  human  nature  as  only  a  human  being  could  see 
it,  but  he  describes  it  like  a  spirit  which  has  never  known  human 
longings  ;  yet  in  no  unfriendly  temper — far  from  it ;  but  with  a 
strange  bleak  fidelity,  unbiassed  either  by  impatience  or  tender 
ness. 

The  poor  and  humble  owe  him  much,  for  he  has  made  them 
known  to  the  upper  classes,  not  as  they  ought  to  be,  but  as  they 
really  are ;  and  in  so  doing,  in  distinctly  portraying  the  evils  of 
their  condition,  he  has  opened  the  way  to  amelioration.  He  is 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


the  poet  of  the  lower  classes,  though  probably  rather  valuable  to 
them  as  an  interpreter  than  agreeable  as  a  household  friend. 
They  like  something  more  stimulating,  they  would  prefer  gin  or 
rum  to  lemonade.  Indeed,  that  class  of  readers  rarely  like  to 
find  themselves  in  print  ;  they  want  something  romantic,  some 
thing  which  takes  them  out  of  their  sphere  ;  and  high  sounding 
words,  such  as  they  are  not  in  the  habit  of  using,  have  peculiar 
charms  for  them.  That  is  a  high  stage  of  culture  in  which  sim 
plicity  is  appreciated. 

The  same  cold  tints  pervade  Crabbe's  descriptions  of  natural 
scenery.  We  can  conceive  that  his  eye  was  educated,  at  the 
sea-side.  An  east-wind  blows,  his  colours  are  sharp  and  de 
cided,  and  the  glitter  which  falls  upon  land  and  wave  has  no 
warmth. 

It  is  difficult  to  do  Crabbe  justice,  both  because  the  subject  is 
so  large  a  one,  and  because  tempted  to  discuss  it  rather  in  admi 
ration  than  in  love. 

I  turn  to  one  whom  I  love  still  more  than  I  admire ;  the  gen 
tle,  the  gifted,  the  ill-fated  Shelley. 

Let  not  prejudice  deny  him  a  place  among  the  great  ones  of 
the  day.  The  youth  of  Shelley  was  unfortunate.  He  com 
mitted  many  errors ;  what  else  could  be  expected  from  one  so 
precocious  ?  No  one  begins  life  so  early  who  is  not  at  some 
period  forced  to  retrace  his  steps,  and  those  precepts  which  are 
learned  so  happily  from  a  mother's  lips,  must  be  paid  for  by  the 
heart's  best  blood  when  bought  from  the  stern  teacher,  Experi 
ence.  Poor  Shelley !  Thou  wert  the  warmest  of  philanthro 
pists,  yet  doomed  to  live  at  variance  with  thy  country  and  thy 
time.  Full  of  the  spirit  of  genuine  Christianity,  yet  ranking  thy 
self  among  unbelievers,  because  in  early  life  thou  hadst  been 
bewildered  by  seeing  it  perverted,  sinking  beneath  those  precious 
gifts  which  should  have  made  a  world  thine  own,  intoxicated  with 
thy  lyric  enthusiasm  and  thick-coming  fancies,  adoring  Nature 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS. 


as  a  goddess,  yet  misinterpreting  her  oracles,  cut  off  from  life 
just  as  thou  wert  beginning  to  read  it  aright ;  O,  most  musical, 
most  melancholy  singer ;  who  that  has  a  soul  to  feel  genius,  a 
heart  to  grieve  over  misguided  nobleness,  can  forbear  watering 
the  profuse  blossoms  of  thy  too  early  closed  spring  with  tears  of 
sympathy,  of  love,  and  (if  we  may  dare  it  for  one  so  superior  in 
intellect)  of  pity  ? 

Although  the  struggles  of  Shelley's  mind  destroyed  that  se 
renity  of  tone  which  is  essential  to  the  finest  poetry,  and  his  ten 
derness  has  not  always  that  elevation  of  hope  which  should 
hallow  it ;  although  in  no  one  of  his  productions  is  there  sufficient 
unity  of  purpose  and  regulation  of  parts  to  entitle  it  to  unlimited 
admiration,  yet  they  all  abound  with  passages  of  infinite  beauty, 
and  in  two  particulars,  he  surpasses  any  poet  of  the  day. 

First,  in  fertility  of  Fancy.  Here  his  riches,  from  want  of 
arrangement,  sometimes  fail  to  give  pleasure,  yet  we  cannot  but 
perceive  that  they  are  priceless  riches.  In  this  respect  parts  of 
his  "  Adonais,"  "  Marianne's  Dream,"  and  "  Medusa,"  are  not 
to  be  excelled,  except  in  Shakspeare. 

Second,  in  sympathy  with  Nature.  To  her  lightest  tones  his 
being  gave  an  echo  ;  truly  she  spoke  to  him,  and  it  is  this  which 
gives  unequalled  melody  to  his  versification ;  I  say  unequalled, 
for  I  do  not  think  either  Moore  or  Coleridge  can  here  vie  with 
him,  though  each  is  in  his  way  a  master  of  the  lyre.  The  rush, 
the  flow,  the  delicacy  of  vibration,  in  Shelley's  verse,  can  only 
be  paralleled  by  the  waterfall,  the  rivulet,  the  notes  of  the  bird 
and  of  the  insect  world.  This  is  a  sort  of  excellence  not  fre 
quently  to  be  expected  now,  when  men  listen  less  zealously  than 
of  old  to  the  mystic  whispers  of  Nature ;  when  little  is  under 
stood  that  is  not  told  in  set  phrases,  and  when  even  poets  write 
more  frequently  in  curtained  and  carpeted  rooms,  than  "  among 
thickets  of  odoriferous  blossoming  trees  and  flowery  glades,"  as 
Shelley  did. 


70  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

It  were  "  a  curious  piece  of  work  enough,'7  to  run  a  parallel 
between  the  Skylark  of  Shelley  and  that  of  Wordsworth,  and  thus 
illustrate  mental  processes  so  similar  in  dissimilitude.  The  mood 
of  mind,  the  ideas,  are  not  unlike  in  the  two.  Hear  Words- 
worth. 

"  Up  with  me,  up  with  me,  into  the  clouds"  etc. 

"  Lift  me,  guide  me,  till  I  find 

The  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind, 
I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary, 

And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary, 
Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Fairy 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly ; 
There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine : 

Joyous  as  morning,  thou  art  laughing  and  scorning ; 

And  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 
Drunken  Lark,  thou  would'st  be  loth 

To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I ! 

Happy,  happy  liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river, 
Pouring  out  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver, 

Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both." 

Hear  Shelley. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 
Of  the  sunken  sun, 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS. 


O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run 
Like  an  unbodied  joy,  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight, 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  1 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  hi  secret  hour, 
With  music  sweet  as  love  which  overflows  her  bower. 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 
In  a  dell  of  dew 


72  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the  view  • 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet,  those  heavy-winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphant  chaunt, 
'*  Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  7 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  1 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  1 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  1  what  ignorance  of  pain  1 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be ; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety." 

I  do  not  like  to  omit  a  word  of  it :  but  it  is  taking  too  much 
room.     Should  we  not  say  from  the  samples  before  us  that  Shel- 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  73 


ley,  in  melody  and  exuberance  of  fancy,  was  incalculably  supe 
rior  to  Wordsworth  ?  But  mark  their  inferences. 

Shelley. 

"  Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  rny  lips  would  flow 
The  world  should  listen,  then,  as  I  am  listening  now." 

Wordsworth. 

"  What  though  my  course  be  rugged  and  uneven, 
To  prickly  moors  and  dusty  ways  confined, 
Yet,  hearing  thee  and  others  of  thy  kind 
As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 
I  o'er  the  earth  will  go  plodding  on 
By  myself,  cheerfully,  till  the  day  is  done." 

If  Wordsworth  have  superiority  then,  it  consists  in  greater  matu 
rity  and  dignity  of  sentiment. 

While  reading  Shelley,  we  must  surrender  ourselves  without 
reserve  to  the  magnetic  power  of  genius  ;  we  must  not  expect  to 
be  satisfied,  but  rest  content  with  being  stimulated.  He  alone 
who  can  resign  his  soul  in  unquestioning  simplicity  to  the  des 
cant  of  the  nightingale  or  the  absorption  of  the  sea-side,  may 
Lope  to  receive  from  the  mind  of  a  Shelley  the  suggestions  which, 
to  those  who  know  how  to  receive,  he  can  so  liberally  impart. 

I  cannot  leave  Shelley  without  quoting  two  or  three  stanzas, 
in  which  he  speaks  of  himself,  and  which  are  full  of  his  peculiar 
beauties  and  peculiar  faults. 

"  A  frail  form, 

A  phantom  among  men,  companionless, 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm, 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness 
Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 

5 


74  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness, 

And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way, 

Pursued  like  raging  hounds  their  father  and  their  prey. 

A  pard-like  Spirit,  beautiful  and  swift — 

A  love  in  desolation  masked ;  a  power 

Girt  round  with  weakness ;  it  can  scarce  uplift 

The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour ; 

It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 

A  breaking  billow ;  even  whilst  we  speak 

Is  it  not  broken  1     On  the  withering  flower 

The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly ;  on  a  cheek 

The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may  break. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown, 

And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue ; 

And  a  light  spear,  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 

Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy-tresses  grew 

Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noon-day  dew, 

Vibrated  as  the  ever-beating  heart 

Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;  of  that  crew 

He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 

A  herd-abandoned  deer,  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart." 

Shelley  is  no  longer  "  neglected,"  but  I  believe  his  works  have 
never  been  republished  in  this  country,  and  therefore  these  ex 
tracts  may  be  new  to  most  readers. 

Byron  naturally  in  our  hall  of  imagery  takes  place  next  his 
friend.  Both  are  noble  poetic  shapes,  both  mournful  in  their 
beauty.  The  radiant  gentleness  of  Shelley's  brow  and  eye  delight 
us,  but  there  are  marks  of  suffering  on  that  delicate  cheek  and 
about  that  sweet  mouth ;  while  a  sorrowful  indignation  curls  too 
strongly  the  lip,  lightens  too  fiercely  in  the  eye,  of  Byron. 

The  unfortunate  Byron,  (unfortunate  I  call  him,  because 
"  mind  and  destiny  are  but  two  names  for  one  idea,")  has  long 
been  at  rest ;  the  adoration  and  the  hatred  of  which  he  was  the 
object,  are  both  dying  out.  His  poems  have  done  their  work  ;  a 
strong  personal  interest  no  longer  gives  them  a  factitious  charm, 


MODERN  BRITISH   POETS.  75 

and  they  are  beginning  to  find  their  proper  level.  Their  value 
is  two- fold — immortal  and  eternal,  as  records  of  thoughts  and 
feelings  which  must  be  immortally  and  eternally  interesting  to 
the  mind  of  individual  man  ;  historical,  because  they  are  the 
most  complete  chronicle  of  a  particular  set  of  impulses  in  the 
public  mind. 

How  much  of  the  first  sort  of  value  the  poems  of  Byron  pos 
sess,  posterity  must  decide,  and  the  verdict  can  only  be  ascer 
tained  by  degrees  ;  I,  for  one,  should  say  not  much.  There  are 
many  beautiful  pictures ;  infinite  wit,  but  too  local  and  tempo 
rary  in  its  range  to  be  greatly  prized  beyond  his  own  time  ;  lit 
tle  originality  ;  but  much  vigor,  both  of  thought  and  expression  ; 
with  a  deep,  even  a  passionate  love  of  the  beautiful  and  grand. 
I  have  often  thought,  in  relation  to  him,  of  Wordsworth's  descrip 
tion  of 

"  A  youth  to  whom  was  given 
So  much  of  Earth,  so  much  of  Heaven, 
And  such  impetuous  blood." 
*  *  *  *  * 

"  Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found, 
Irregular  in  sight  or  sound, 

Did  to  his  mind  impart 
A  kindred  impulse,  seemed  allied 
To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 

The  workings  of  his  heart. 

Nor  less  to  feed  voluptuous  thought, 
The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wrought, 

Fair  trees  and  lovely  flowers ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent, 
The  stars  had  feelings  which  they  sent 

Into  those  gorgeous  bowers. 

And  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween, 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent; 


76  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

For  passions  linked  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment." 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  Byron's  moral  perversion  never 
paralyzed  or  obscured  his  intellectual  powers,  though  it  might 
lower  their  aims.  With  regard  to  the  plan  and  style  of  his 
works,  he  showed  strong  good  sense  and  clear  judgment.  The 
man  who  indulged  such  narrowing  egotism,  such  irrational  scorn, 
would  prune  and  polish  without  mercy  the  stanzas  in  which  he 
uttered  them  ;  and  this  bewildered  Idealist  was  a  very  bigot  in 
behoof  of  the  commonsensical  satirist,  the  almost  peevish  Realist 
— Pope. 

Historically  these  poems  are  valuable  as  records  of  that  strange 
malady,  that  sickness  of  the  soul,  which  has,  in  our  day,  can 
kered  so  visibly  the  rose  of  youth.  It  is  common  to  speak  of  the 
Byronic  mood  as  morbid,  false,  and  foolish  ;  it  is  the  two  former, 
and,  if  it  could  be  avoided,  would  most  assuredly  be  the  latter 
also.  But  how  can  it  always  be  avoided  ?  Like  as  a  fever 
rages  in  the  blood  before  we  are  aware,  even  so  creeps  upon  the 
soul  this  disease,  offspring  of  a  moral  malaria,  an  influence  im 
palpable  till  we  feel  its  results  within  ourselves.  Since  skilful 
physicians  are  not  always  at  hand,  would  it  not  be  better  to  pu 
rify  the  atmosphere  than  to  rail  at  the  patient  ?  Those  who  have 
passed  through  this  process  seem  to  have  wondrous  little  pity  for 
those  who  are  still  struggling  with  its  horrors,  and  very  little 
care  to  aid  them.  Yet  if  it  be  disease,  does  it  not  claim  pity,  and 
would  it  not  be  well  to  try  some  other  remedy  than  hard  knocks 
for  its  cure  ?  What  though  these  sick  youths  do  mourn  and  la 
ment  somewhat  wearisomely,  and  we  feel  vexed,  on  bright  May 
mornings,  to  have  them  try  to  persuade  us  that  this  beautiful 
green  earth,  with  all  its  flowers  and  bird-notes,  is  no  better  than  a, 
vast  hospital  ?  Consider,  it  is  a  relief  to  the  delirious  to  rave 
audibly,  and  few,  like  Professor  Teufelsdrock,  have  strength  to 


MODERN   BRITISH  POETS.  77 

keep  a  whole  Satanic  school  in  the  soul  from  spouting  aloud. 
What  says  the  benign  Uhland  ? 

"  If  our  first  lays  too  piteous  have  been, 

And  you  have  feared  our  tears  would  never  cease, 
If  we  too  gloomily  life's  prose  have  seen, 

Nor  suffered  Man  nor  Mouse  to  dwell  in  peace, 
Yet  pardon  us  for  our  youth's  take.     The  vine 
Must  weep  from  her  crushed  grapes  the  generous  wine ; 
Not  without  pain  the  precious  beverage  flows ; 
Thus  joy  and  power  may  yet  spring  from  the  woes 
Which  have  so  wearied  every  long-tasked  ear ;"  &c. 

There  is  no  getting  rid  of  the  epidemic  of  the  season,  however 
annoying  and  useless  it  may  seem.  You  cannot  cough  down  an 
influenza  ;  it  will  cough  you  down. 

Why  young  people  will  just  now  profess  themselves  so  very 
miserable,  for  no  better  reason  than  that  assigned  by  the  poet  to 
some  "  inquiring  friends," 

"Nought  do  I  mourn  I  e'er  possessed, 
I  grieve  that  I  cannot  be  blessed ;" 

I  have  here  no  room  to  explain.  Enough  that  there  has  for  some 
time  prevailed  a  sickliness  of  feeling,  whose  highest  water-mark 
may  be  found  in  the  writings  of  Byron.  He  is  the  "  power  man" 
(as  the  Germans  call  him,  meaning  perhaps  the  power-loom  !) 
who  has  woven  into  one  tissue  all  those  myriad  threads,  tear- 
stained  and  dull-gray,  with  which  the  malignant  spiders  of  specu 
lation  had  filled  the  machine  shop  of  society,  and  by  so  doing  has, 
though  I  admit,  unintentionally,  conferred  benefits  upon  us  incal 
culable  for  a  long  time  to  come.  He  has  lived  through  this  expe 
rience  for  us,  and  shown  us  that  the  natural  fruits  of  indulgence 
in  such  a  temper  are  dissonance,  cynicism,  irritability,  and  all 
uncharitableness.  Accordingly,  since  his  time  the  evil  has  les 
sened.  With  this  warning  before  them,  let  the  young  examine 


78  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

that  world,  which  seems  at  times  so  deformed  by  evils  and  end 
less  contradictions, 

"  Control  them  and  subdue,  transmute,  bereave 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  the  good  receive." 

Grief  loses  half  its  charm  when  we  find  that  others  have  endured 
the  same  to  a  higher  degree,  and  lived  through  it.  Nor  do  I  be- 
lieve  that  the  misanthropy  of  Byron  ever  made  a  single  misan 
thrope  ;  that  his  scepticism,  so  uneasy  and  sorrowful  beneath  its 
thin  mask  of  levity,  ever  made  a  single  sceptic.  I  know  those 
whom  it  has  cured  of  their  yet  half-developed  errors.  I  believe 
it  has  cured  thousands. 

As  supplying  materials  for  the  history  of  opinion,  then,  Byron's 
poems  will  be  valuable.  And  as  a  poet,  I  believe  posterity  will 
assign  him  no  obscure  place,  though  he  will  probably  be  classed 
far  beneath  some  who  have  exercised  a  less  obvious  or  immediate 
influence  on  their  own  times ;  beneath  the  noble  Three  of  whom 
I  am  yet  to  speak,  whose  merits  are  immortal,  because  their  ten- 
dencies  are  towards  immortality,  and  all  whose  influence  must 
be  a  growing  influence  ;  beneath  Southey,  Coleridge,  and  Words 
worth. 

Before  proceeding  to  discuss  these  last,  for  which  there  is  hardly 
room  in  the  present  paper,  I  would  be  allowed  to  conclude  this 
division  of  my  subject  with  a  fine  passage  in  which  Shelley  speaks 
of  Byron.  I  wish  to  quote  it,  because  it  is  of  kindred  strain 
with  what  Walter  Scott  and  Rogers  (in  his  "Italy")  have  written 
about  their  much  abused  compeer.  It  is  well  for  us  to  see  great 
men  judging  so  gently,  and  excusing  so  generously,  faults  from 
which  they  themselves  are  entirely  free  ;  faults  at  which  men  of 
less  genius,  and  less  purity  too,  found  it  so  easy  and  pleasant  to 
rail.  I  quote  it  in  preference  to  any  thing  from  Scott  and  Ro 
gers,  because  I  presume  it  to  be  less  generally  known. 

In  apostrophizing  Venice,  Shelley  says, 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  79 


;  Perish !  let  there  only  be 
Floating  o'er  thy  hearthless  sea, 
As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 
Clothes  the  world  immortally, 
One  remembrance  more  sublime 
Than  the  tattered  pall  of  Time, 
Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan ; 
That  a  tempest -cleaving  swan 

Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 
Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 

By  the  might  of  evil  dreams, 
Found  a  nest  in  thee ;  and  Ocean 
Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 
That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung 
From  his  lips  like  music  flung 
O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit 
Chastening  terror; — What  though  yet 

Poesy's  unfailing  river, 
Which  through  Albion  winds  for  ever 
Lashing  with  melodious  wave 
Many  a  sacred  poet's  grave, 
Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled ! 
What  though  thou,  with  all  thy  dead, 
Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 
Aught  thine  own ; — oh,  rather  say 
Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 
Overcloud  a  sun-like  soul ! 
As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 
Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs ; 
As  divinest  Shakspeare's  might 
Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light ; 
Like  omniscient  power,  which  he 
Imaged  'mid  mortality : 
As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn 
Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 
A  quenchless  lamp  by  which  the  heart 
Sees  things  unearthly ;  so  thou  art, 
Mighty  spirit ;  so  shall  be 
The  city  that  did  refuge  thee." 


80  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


IN  earlier  days  the  greatest  poets  addressed  themselves  more 
to  the  passions  or  heart-emotions  of  their  fellow-men  than  to  their 
thoughts  or  mind-emotions.  The  passions  were  then  in  their 
natural  state,  and  held  their  natural  places  in  the  character. 
They  were  not  made  sickly  by  a  false  refinement,  or  stimulated 
to  a  diseased  and  incessantly  craving  state.  Men  loved  and 
hated  to  excess,  perhaps ;  but  there  was  nothing  factitious  in 
their  love  or  hatred.  The  tone  of  poetry,  even  when  employed 
on  the  most  tragic  subjects,  might  waken  in  the  hearer's  heart  a 
chord  of  joy  ;  for  in  such  natural  sorrow  there  was  a  healthful 
life,  an  energy  which  told  of  healing  yet  to  come  and  the  endless 
riches  of  love  and  hope. 

How  different  is  its  tone  in  Faust  and  Manfred  ;  how  false  to 
simple  nature,  yet  how  true  to  the  time  !  As  the  mechanism  of 
society  has  become  more  complex,  and  must  be  regulated  more 
by  combined  efforts,  desire  after  individuality  brings  him  who 
manifests  it  into  a  state  of  conflict  with  society.  This  is  felt  from 
a  passion,  whether  it  be  love  or  ambition,  which  seeks  to  make 
its  own  world  independent  of  trivial  daily  circumstances,  arid 
struggles  long  against  the  lessons  of  experience,  which  tell  it  that 
such  singleness  of  effort  and  of  possession  cannot  be,  consistently 
with  that  grand  maxim  of  the  day,  the  greatest  happiness  of  the 
greatest  number.  Not  until  equally  enlightened  and  humble,  can 
the  human  being  learn  that  individuality  of  character  is  not 
necessarily  combined  with  individuality  of  possession,  hut  depends 
alone  on  the  zealous  observance  of  truth.  Few  can  be  wise 
enough  to  realize  with  Schiller,  that  '•  to  be  truly  immortal  one 
must  live  in  the  whole.''  The  mind  struggles  long,  before  it 
can  resolve  on  sacrificing  any  thing  of  its  impulsive  nature  to  the 
requisitions  of  the  time.  And  while  it  struggles  it  mourns,  and 
these  lamentations  compose  the  popular  poetry.  Men  do  not  now 
look  in  poetry  for  a  serene  world,  amid  whose  vocal  groves  and 
green  meads  they  may  refresh  themselves  after  the  heat  of  action, 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  81 

and  in  paradisaical  quiet  listen  to  the  tales  of  other  days.  No  ! 
dissatisfied  and  represt,  they  want  to  be  made  to  weep,  because, 
in  so  doing,  they  feel  themselves  in  some  sense  free. 

All  this  conflict  and  apparently  bootless  fretting  and  wailing 
mark  a  transition-state — a  state  of  gradual  revolution,  in  which 
men  try  all  things,  seeking  what  they  hold  fast,  and  feel  that  it 
is  good.  But  there  are  some,  the  pilot-minds  of  the  age,  who 
cannot  submit  to  pass  all  their  lives  in  experimentalizing.  They 
cannot  consent  to  drift  across  the  waves  in  the  hope  of  finding 
somewhere  a  haven  and  a  home ;  but,  seeing  the  blue  sky  over 
them,  and  believing  that  God's  love  is  every  where,  try  to  make 
the  best  of  that  spot  on  which  they  have  been  placed,  and,  not 
unfrequently,  by  the  aid  of  spiritual  assistance,  more  benign  than 
that  of  Faust's  Lemures,  win  from  the  raging  billows  large  terri 
tories,  whose  sands  they  can  convert  into  Eden  bowers,  tenanted 
by  lovely  and  majestic  shapes. 

/"'  Such  are  Southey,  Coleridge,  and  Wordsworth.  They  could 
/  not  be  satisfied,  like  Byron,  with  embodying  the  peculiar  wit  or 
peculiar  sufferings  of  the  times ;  nor  like  Scott,  with  depicting 
an  era  which  has  said  its  say  and  produced  its  fruit :  nor  like 
Campbell,  with  occasionally  giving  a  voice  and  a  permanent 
being  to  some  brilliant  moment  or  fair  scene.  Not  of  nobler  na 
ture,  not  more  richly  endowed  than  Shelley,  they  were  not  doomed 
to  misguided  efforts  and  baffled  strivings ;  much  less  could  they, 
like  Moore,  consider  poetry  merely  as  the  harmonious  expression 
of  transient  sensations.  To  them  Poetry  was,  must  be,  the  ex 
pression  of  what  is  eternal  in  man's  nature,  through  illustrations 
drawn  from  his  temporal  state  ;  a  representation  in  letters  of  fire, 
on  life's  dark  curtain,  of  that  which  lies  beyond ;  philosophy 
dressed  in  the  robes  of  Taste  and  Imagination;  the  voice  of 
Nature  and  of  God,  humanized  by  being  echoed  back  from  the 
understanding  hearts  of  Priests  and  Seers  !  Of  course  this  could 
not  be  the  popular  poetry  of  the  day.  Being  eminently  the  pro- 


PAPERS  ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


duct  of  reflection  and  experience,  it  could  only  be  appreciated  by 
those  who  had  thought  and  felt  to  some  depth.  I  confess  that 
it  is  not  the  best  possible  poetry,  since  so  exclusively  adapted  to 
the  meditative  few.  In  Shakspeare,  or  Homer,  there  is  for  minds 
of  every  grade  as  much  as  they  are  competent  to  receive, 
the  shallow  or  careless  find  there  amusement ;  minds  of  a  higher 
order,  meaning  which  enlightens  and  beauty  which  enchants 
them. 

This  fault  which  I  have  admitted,  this  want  of  universality  is 
not  surprising,  since  it  was  necessary  for  these  three  poets  to 
stand  apart  from  the  tide  of  opinion,  and  disregard  the  popular 
tastes,  in  order  to  attain  firmness,  depth,  or  permanent  beauty. 
And  they  being,  as  I  have  said,  the  pilot-minds  of  their  time, 
their  works  enjoy  a  growing,  though  not  a  rapidly  growing,  popu 
larity. 

Coleridge,  in  particular,  is  now  very  much  read,  nor,  notwith 
standing  his  was  but  occasional  homage  to  the  shrine  of  poesy, 
was  he  the  least  valuable  votary  of  the  three,  since,  if  he  has 
done  least,  if  his  works  form  a  less  perfect  whole,  and  are  there 
fore  less  satisfactory  than  those  of  the  other  two,  he  is  far  more 
suggestive,  more  filled  with  the  divine  magnetism  of  intuition, 
than  they. 

The  muse  of  Southey  is  a  beautiful  statue  of  crystal,  in  whose 
bosom  burns  an  immortal  flame.  We  hardly  admire,  as  they  de 
serve,  the  perfection  of  the  finish,  and  the  elegance  of  the  con 
tours,  because  our  attention  is  so  fixed  on  the  radiance  which 
glows  through  them. 

Thus  Southey  is  remarkable  for  the  fidelity,  and  still  more 
for  the  grace,  of  his  descriptions ;  for  his  elegant  manner  of 
expressing  sentiments  noble,  delicate,  and  consistent  in  their  tone ; 
for  his  imagination,  but,  more  than  all,  for  his  expansive  and  fer 
vent  piety. 

In  his  fidelity  of  description  there  is  nothing  of  the  minute 


MODERN  BRITISH   POETS.  83 

accuracy  of  Scott.  Southey  takes  no  pleasure  in  making  little 
dots  and  marks ;  his  style  is  free  and  bold,  yet  always  true, 
sometimes  elaborately  true,  to  nature.  Indeed,  if  he  has  a  fault, 
it  is  that  he  elaborates  too  much.  He  himself  has  said  that  poe 
try  should  be  "thoroughly  erudite,  thoroughly  animated,  and 
thoroughly  natural."  His  poetry  cannot  always  boast  of  the  two 
last  essentials.  Even  in  his  most  brilliant  passages  there  is 
nothing  of  the  heat  of  inspiration,  nothing  of  that  celestial  fire 
which  makes  us  feel  that  the  author  has,  by  intensifying  the 
action  of  his  mind,  raised  himself  to  communion  with  superior 
intelligences.  It  is  where  he  is  most  calm  that  he  is  most  beauti 
ful  ;  and,  accordingly,  he  is  more  excellent  in  the  expression  of 
sentiment  than  in  narration.  Scarce  any  writer  presents  to  us  a 
sentiment  with  such  a  tearful  depth  of  expression  ;  but  though  it 
is  a  tearful  depth,  those  tears  were  shed  long  since,  and  Faith 
and  Love  have  hallowed  them.  You  nowhere  are  made  to  feel 
the  bitterness,  the  vehemence  of  present  emotion  ;  but  the  phoe 
nix  born  from  passion  is  seen  hovering  over  the  ashes  of  what 
was  once  combined  with  it.  Southey  is  particularly  exquisite  in 
painting  those  sentiments  which  arise  from  the  parental  and  filial 
relation  :  whether  the  daughter  looks  back  from  her  heavenly 
lover,  and  the  opening  bowers  of  bliss,  still  tenderly  solicitous  for 
her  father,  whom  she,  in  the  true  language  of  woman's  heart, 
recommends  to  favour,  as 

"  That  wretched,  persecuted,  poor  good  man  ;" 

or  the  father,  as  in  "  Thai  aba,"  shows  a  faith  in  the  benignity 
and  holiness  of  his  lost  daughter,  which  the  lover,  who  had  given 
up  for  her  so  high  a  destiny,  wanted  ;— or,  as  in  "Roderick,"  the 
miserable,  sinful  child  wanders  back  to  relieve  himself  from 
the  load  of  pollution  at  the  feet  of  a  sainted  mother  ;  always — 
always  he  speaks  from  a  full,  a  sanctified  soul,  in  tones  of  thrill- 
ing  melody. 


84  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 


The  imagination  of  Southey  is  marked  by  similar  traits  ;  there 
is  no  flash,  no  scintillation  about  it,  but  a  steady  light  as  of  day 
itself.  As  specimens  of  his  best  manner,  I  would  mention  the 
last  stage  of  Thalaba's  journey  to  the  Domdaniel  Caves,  and,  in 
the  "  Curse  of  Kehama,"  the  sea-palace  of  Baly,  "  The  Glen- 
doveer,"  and  "  The  Ship  of  Heaven."  As  Southey's  poems  are 
not  very  generally  read,  I  will  extract  the  two  latter  : 

"THE  SHIP  OP  HEAVEN. 

"  THE  ship  of  heaven,  instinct  with  thought  displayed 
Its  living  sail  and  glides  along  the  sky, 

On  either  side,  in  wavy  tide, 
The  clouds  of  morn  along  its  path  divide ; 
The  winds  that  swept  in  wild  career  on  high, 
Before  its  presence  check  their  charmed  force ; 
The  winds  that,  loitering,  lagged  along  their  course 
Around  the  living  bark  enamored  play, 
Swell  underneath  the  sail,  and  sing  before  its  way. 

"  That  bark  in  shape  was  like  the  furrowed  shell 
Wherein  the  sea-nymphs  to  their  parent  king, 
On  festal  days  their  duteous  offerings  bring ; 
Its  hue  ?  go  watch  the  last  green  light 
Ere  evening  yields  the  western  sky  to  night, 
Or  fix  upon  the  sun  thy  strenuous  sight 
Till  thou  hast  reached  its  orb  of  chrysolite. 

The  sail,  from  end  to  end  displayed, 
Bent,  like  a  rainbow,  o'er  the  maid  ; 

An  angel's  head  with  visual  eye, 
Through  trackless  space  directs  its  chosen  way; 

Nor  aid  of  wing,  nor  foot  nor  fin, 
Requires  to  voyage  o'er  the  obedient  sky. 
Smooth  as  the  swan  when  not  a  breeze  at  even 

Disturbs  the  surface  of  the  silver  stream, 
Through  air  and  sunshine  sails  the  ship  of  heaven." 

Southey  professes  to  have  borrowed  the  description  of  the  Glen- 
doveer  from  an  old  and  forgotten  book.     He  has  given  the  prose 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  85 

extract  in  a  note  to  the  "  Curse  of  Kehama,"  and  I  think  no  one 
can  compare  the  two  without  feeling  that  the  true  alchymy  has 
been  at  work  there.  His  poetry  is  a  new  and  life-giving  ele 
ment  to  the  very  striking  thoughts  he  borrowed.  Charcoal  and 
diamonds  are  not  more  unlike  in  their  effect  upon  the  observer. 

"THE  GLENDOVEER. 

"  Of  human  form  divine  was  he, 
The  immortal  youth  of  heaven  who  floated  by, 

Even  such  as  that  divinest  form  shall  be 
In  those  blest  stages  of  our  mortal  race, 

When  no  infirmity, 

Low  thought,  nor  base  desire,  nor  wasting  care 
Deface  the  semblance  of  our  heavenly  sire — 
The  wings  of  eagle  or  of  cherubim 
Had  seemed  unworthy  him  ; 
Angelic  power  and  dignity  and  grace 
Were  in  his  glorious  pennons ;  from  the  neck 
Down  to  the  ankle  reached  their  swelling  web 
Richer  than  robes  of  Tyrian  dye,  that  deck 

Imperial  majesty : 

Their  color,  like  the  winter's  moonless  sky 
When  all  the  stars  of  midnight's  canopy 
Shine  forth ;  or  like  the  azure  deep  at  noon, 
Reflecting  back  to  heaven  a  brighter  blue, 
Such  was  their  tint  when  closed,  but  when  outspread, 

The  permeating  light 
Shed  through  their  substance  thin  a  varying  hue ; 

Now  bright  as  when  the  rose, 
Beauteous  as  fragrant,  gives  to  scent  and  sight 
A  like  delight,  now  like  the  juice  that  flows 

From  Douro's  generous  vine, 
Or  ruby  when  with  deepest  red  it  glows ; 
Or  as  the  morning  clouds  refulgent  shine 
When  at  forthcoming  of  the  lord  of  day, 
The  orient,  like  a  shrine, 
Kindles  as  it  receives  the  rising  ray, 
And  heralding  his  way 


86  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

Proclaims  the  presence  of  the  power  divine — 

Thus  glorious  were  the  wings 
Of  that  celestial  spirit,  as  he  went 
Disporting  through  his  native  element — 

Nor  these  alone 

The  gorgeous  beauties  that  they  gave  to  view ; 
Through  the  broad  membrane  branched  a  pliant  bone, 

Spreading  like  fibres  from  their  parent  stem  ; 
Its  vines  like  interwoven  silver  shone ; 

Or  as  the  chaster  hue 
Of  pearls  that  grace  some  sultan's  diadem. 
Now  with  slow  stroke  and  strong,  behold  him  smite 

The  buoyant  air,  and  now  in  gentler  flight 
On  motionless  wing  expanded,  shoot  along." 

All  Southey's  works  are  instinct,  and  replete  with  the  experi 
ences  of  piety,  from  that  fine  picture  of  natural  religion,  Joan  of 
Arc's  confession  of  faith,  to  that  as  noble  sermon  as  ever  was 
preached  upon  Christianity,  the  penitence  of  Roderic  the  Goth. 
This  last  is  the  most  original  and  elevated  in  its  design  of  all 
Southey's  poems.  In  "  Thalaba"  and  "  Joan  of  Arc,"  he  had 
illustrated  the  power  of  faith  ;  in  "  Madoc"  contrasted  religion 
under  a  pure  and  simple  form  with  the  hydra  ugliness  of  super 
stition.  In  "  Kehama"  he  has  exhibited  virtue  struggling  against 
the  most  dreadful  inflictions  with  heavenly  fortitude,  and  made 
manifest  to  us  the  angel-guards  who  love  to  wait  on  innocence 
and  goodness.  But  in  Roderic  the  design  has  even  a  higher 
scope,  is  more  difficult  of  execution ;  and,  so  far  as  I  know, 
unique.  The  temptations  which  beset  a  single  soul  have  been  a 
frequent  subject,  and  one  sure  of  sympathy  if  treated  with  any 
power.  Breathlessly  we  watch  the  conflict,  with  heartfelt  an 
guish  mourn  defeat,  or  with  heart-expanding  triumph  hail  a  con 
quest.  But,  where  there  has  been  defeat,  to  lead  us  back  with 
the  fallen  one  through  the  thorny  and  desolate  paths  of  repent 
ance  to  purification,  to  win  not  only  our  pity,  but  our  sympathy, 
for  one  crushed  and  degraded  by  his  own  sin  ;  and  finally, 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  87 


through  his  faithful  though  secret  efforts  to  redeem  the  past, 
secure  to  him,  justly  blighted  and  world-forsaken  as  he  is,  not 
only  our  sorrowing  love,  but  our  respect ; — this  Southey  alone 
has  done,  perhaps  alone  could  do.  As  a  scene  of  unrivalled  ex 
cellence,  both  for  its  meaning  and  its  manner,  I  would  mention 
that  of  Florinda's  return  with  "  Roderic,"  (who  is  disguised  as  a 
monk,  and  whom  she  does  not  know,)  to  her  father ;  when  after 
such  a  strife  of  heart-rending  words  and  heart-broken  tears,  they, 
exhausted,  seat  themselves  on  the  bank  of  the  little  stream,  and 
watch  together  the  quiet  moon.  Never  has  Christianity  spoken 
in  accents  of  more  penetrating  tenderness  since  the  promise  was 
'given  to  them  that  be  weary  and  heavy-laden. 

Of  Coleridge  I  shall  say  little.  Few  minds  are  capable  of 
fathoming  his  by  their  own  sympathies,  and  he  has  left  us  no  ad 
equate  manifestation  of  himself  as  a  poet  by  which  to  judge  him. 
For  his  dramas,  I  consider  them  complete  failures,  and  more  like 
visions  than  dramas.  For  a  metaphysical  mind  like  his  to  at 
tempt  that  walk,  was  scarcely  more  judicious  than  it  would  be 
for  a  blind  man  to  essay  painting  the  bay  of  Naples.  Many  of 
his  smaller  pieces  are  perfect  in  their  way,  indeed  no  writer 
could  excel  him  in  depicting  a  single  mood  of  mind,  as  Dejection, 
for  instance.  Could  Shakspeare  have  surpassed  these  lines  ? 

"  A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear 
A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassioned  grief, 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear. 

O  Lady,  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, 
To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle  wooed, 
All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene, 

Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western  sky 
And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green  : 

And  still  I  gaze — and  with  how  blank  an  eye ! 
And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and  bars, 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars ; 


PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 


Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  between, 
Now  sparkling,  now  bedimrned,  but  always  seen ; 
Yon  crescent  moon,  as  fixed  as  if  it  grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue ; 

I  see  them  all,  so  excellently  fair, 
I  see,  not  feel,  how  beautiful  they  are ! 

My  genial  spirits  fail, 

And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my  breast  1 

It  were  a  vain  endeavour, 

Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  West, 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  life  whose  fountains  are  within." 

Give  Coleridge  a  canvass,  and  he  will  paint  a  single  mood  as  if 
his  colors  were  made  of  the  mind's  own  atoms.  Here  he  is  very 
unlike  Southey.  There  is  nothing  of  the  spectator  about  Cole 
ridge  ;  he  is  all  life ;  not  impassioned,  not  vehement,  but  search 
ing,  intellectual  life,  which  seems  "  listening  through  the  frame" 
to  its  own  pulses. 

I  have  little  more  to  say  at  present  except  to  express  a  great, 
though  not  fanatical  veneration  for  Coleridge,  and  a  conviction 
that  the  benefits  conferred  by  him  on  this  and  future  ages  are  as 
yet  incalculable.  Every  mind  will  praise  him  for  what  it  can 
best  receive  from  him.  He  can  suggest  to  an  infinite  degree  j 
he  can  mform,  but  he  cannot  reform  and  renovate.  To  the  un 
prepared  he  is  nothing,  to  the  prepared,  every  thing.  Of  him 
may  be  said  what  he  said  of  Nature, 

"  We  receive  but  what  we  give, 
In  kind  though  not  in  measure." 

I  was  once  requested,  by  a  very  sensible  and  excellent  person 
age  to  explain  what  is  meant  by  "  Christabel"  and  "  The  An 
cient  Mariner."  I  declined  the  task.  I  had  not  then  seen  Cole 
ridge's  answer  to  a  question  of  similar  tenor  from  Mrs.  Barbauld, 


m 

MODERN  BRITISH   POETS.  89 


or  I  should  have  referred  to  that  as  an  expresgregfliftt  faltggether 
unintelligible,  of  the  discrepancy  which  must 
those  minds  which  are  commonly  styled  rational,  (as  the  received 
definition  of  common  sense  is  insensibility  to  uncommon  sense,) 
and  that  of  Coleridge.  As  to  myself,  if  I  understand  nothing  be- 
yond  the  execution  of  those  "  singularly  wild  and  original  poems," 
I  could  not  tell  my  gratitude  for  the  degree  of  refinement  which 
Taste  has  received  from  them.  To  those  who  cannot  understand 
the  voice  of  Nature  or  Poetry,  unless  it  speak  in  apothegms,  and 
tag  each  story  with  a  moral,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  My  own 
greatest  obligation  to  Coleridge  I  have  already  mentioned.  It  is 
for  his  suggestive  power  that  I  thank  him. 

Wordsworth  !  beloved  friend  and  venerated  teacher  j  it  is 
more  easy  and  perhaps  as  profitable  to  speak  of  thee.  It  is  less 
difficult  to  interpret  thee,  since  no  acquired  nature,  but  merely  a 
theory,  severs  thee  from  my  mind. 

Classification  on  such  a  subject  is  rarely  satisfactory,  yet  I 
will  attempt  to  define  in  that  way  the  impressions  produced  by 
Wordsworth  on  myself.  I  esteem  his  characteristics  to  be — of 
Spirit, 

Perfect  simplicity, 

Perfect  truth, 

Perfect  love. 
Of  mind  or  talent, 

Calmness, 

Penetration, 

Power  of  Analysis. 
Of  manner, 

Energetic  greatness, 

Pathetic  tendernesss, 

Mild,  persuasive  eloquence. 

The  time  has  gone  by  when  groundlings  could  laugh  with  im 
punity  at  "  Peter  Bell"  and  the  "  Idiot  Mother."  Almost  every 


90  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

line  of  Wordsworth  has  been  quoted  and  requoted  ;  every  feel- 
ing  echoed  back,  and  every  drop  of  that  "  cup  of  still  and  serious 
thought"  drunk  up  by  some  "  spirit  profound  ;"  enough  to  sat 
isfy  the  giver. 

Wordsworth  is  emphatically  the  friend  and  teacher  of  mature 
years.  Youth,  in  whose  bosom  "  the  stately  passions  burn,"  is 
little  disposed  to  drink  with  him  from  the 

"urn 
Of  lowly  pleasure." 

He  has  not  an  idealizing  tendency,  if  by  this  be  meant  the  desire 
of  creating  from  materials  supplied  by  our  minds,  and  by  the 
world  in  which  they  abide  for  a  season,  a  new  and  more  beau 
tiful  world.  It  is  the  aspiration  of  a  noble  nature  animated  by 
genius,  it  is  allied  with  the  resolve  for  self-perfection ;  and 
few,  without  some  of  its  influence,  can  bring  to  blossom  the  bud 
of  any  virtue.  It  is  fruitful  in  illusions,  but  those  illusions  have 
heavenly  truth  interwoven  with  their  temporary  errors.  But  the 
mind  of  Wordsworth,  like  that  of  the  man  of  science,  finds  enough 
of  beauty  in  the  real  present  world.  He  delights  in  penetrating 
the  designs  of  God,  rather  than  in  sketching  designs  of  his  own. 
Generally  speaking,  minds  in  which  the  faculty  of  observation  is 
so  prominent,  have  little  enthusiasm,  little  dignity  of  sentiment. 
That  is,  indeed,  an  intellect  of  the  first  order,  which  can  see  the 
great  in  the  little,  and  dignify  the  petty  operations  of  Nature,  by 
tracing  through  them  her  most  sublime  principles.  Wordsworth 
scrutinizes  man  and  nature  with  the  exact  and  searching  eye  of  a 
Cervantes,  a  Fielding,  or  a  Richter,  but  without  any  love  for  that 
humorous  wit  which  cannot  obtain  its  needful  food  unaided  by 
such  scrutiny ;  while  dissection  merely  for  curiosity's  sake  is  his 
horror.  He  has  the  delicacy  of  perception,  the  universality  of 
feeling  which  distinguish  Shakspeare  and  the  three  or  four  other 
poets  of  the  first  class,  and  might  have  taken  rank  with  them  had 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETS.  91 

he  been  equally  gifted  with  versatility  of  talent.  Many  might 
reply,  "  in  wanting  this  last  he  wants  the  better  half."  To  this 
I  cannot  agree.  Talent,  or  facility  in  making  use  of  thought,  is 
dependent,  in  a  great  measure,  on  education  and  circumstance  ; 
while  thought  itself  is  immortal  as  the  soul  from  which  it  radiates. 
Wherever  we  perceive  a  profound  thought,  however  imperfectly 
expressed,  we  offer  a  higher  homage  than  we  can  to  common 
place  thoughts,  however  beautiful,  or  if  expressed  with  all  that 
grace  of  art  which  it  is  often  most  easy  for  ordinary  minds  to  ac 
quire.  There  is  a  suggestive  and  stimulating  power  in  original 
thought  which  cannot  be  gauged  by  the  first  sensation  or  tempo 
rary  effect  it  produces.  The  circles  grow  wider  and  wider  as 
the  impulse  is  propagated  through  the  deep  waters  of  eternity. 
An  exhibition  of  talent  causes  immediate  delight ;  almost  all  of  us 
can  enjoy  seeing  a  thing  well  done ;  not  all  of  us  can  enjoy  be 
ing  roused  to  do  and  dare  for  ourselves.  Yet  when  the  mind  is 
roused  to  penetrate  the  secret  meaning  of  each  human  effort,  a 
higher  pleasure  and  a  greater  benefit  may  be  derived  from  the 
rude  but  masterly  sketch,  than  from  the  elaborately  finished  min 
iature.  In  the  former  case  our  creative  powers  are  taxed  to  sup 
ply  what  is  wanting,  while  in  the  latter  our  tastes  are  refined  by 
admiring  what  another  has  created.  Now,  since  I  esteem  Words 
worth  as  superior  in  originality  and  philosophic  unity  of  thought, 
to  the  other  poets  I  have  been  discussing,  I  give  him  the  highest 
place,  though  they  may  be  superior  to  him  either  in  melody,  bril 
liancy  of  fancy,  dramatic  power,  or  general  versatility  of  talent. 
Yet  I  do  not  place  him  on  a  par  with  those  who  combine  those 
minor  excellencies  with  originality  and  philosophic  unity  of 
thought.  He  is  not  a  Shakspeare,  but  he  is  the  greatest  poet  of 
the  day  ;  and  this  is  more  remarkable,  as  he  is,  par  excellence, 
a  didactic  poet. 

I  have  paid  him  the  most  flattering  tribute  in  saying  that  there 
is  not  a  line  of  his  which  has  not  been  quoted  and  requoted. 


PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND    ART. 


Men  have  found  sucli  a  response  to  their  lightest  as  well  as  their 
deepest  feelings,  such  beautiful  morality  with  such  lucid  philoso 
phy,  that  every  thinking  mind  has,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
appropriated  something  from  Wordsworth.  Those  who  have 
never  read  his  poems  have  imbibed  some  part  of  their  spirit  from 
the  public  or  private  discourse  of  his  happy  pupils  ;  and  it  is,  as 
yet,  impossible  to  estimate  duly  the  effect  which  the  balm  of  his 
meditations  has  had  in  allaying  the  fever  of  the  public  heart,  as 
exhibited  in  the  writings  of  Byron  and  Shelley. 

But,  as  I  said  before,  he  is  not  for  youth,  he  is  too  tranquil. 
His  early  years  were  passed  in  listening  to,  his  mature  years  in 
interpreting,  the  oracles  of  Nature ;  and  though  in  pity  and  in 
love  he  sympathizes  with  the  conflicts  of  life,  it  is  not  by  min 
gling  his  tears  with  the  sufferer's,  but  by  the  consolations  of  pa 
tient  faith,  that  he  would  heal  their  griefs. 

The  sonnet  on  Tranquillity,  to  be  found  in  the  present  little 
volume,  exhibits  him  true  to  his  old  love  and  natural  religion. 

"  Tranquillity !  the  solemn  aim  \vert  thou 
In  heathen  schools  of  philosophic  lore; 
Heart-stricken  by  stern  destiny  of  yore, 
The  tragic  muse  thee  served  with  thoughtful  vow ; 
And  what  of  hope  Elysium  could  allow 
Was  fondly  seized  by  Sculpture,  to  restore 
Peace  to  the  mourner's  soul;  but  he  who  wore 
The  crown  of  thorns  around  his  bleeding  brow, 
Warmed  our  sad  being  with  his  glorious  light ; 
Then  arts  which  still  had  drawn  a  softening  grace 

From  shadowy  fountains  of  the  Infinite, 
Communed  with  that  idea  face  to  face  ; 
Ajid  move  around  it  now  as  planets  run, 
Each  in  its  orbit  round  the  central  sun." 

The  doctrine  of  tranquillity  does  not  suit  the  impetuous  blood 
of  the  young,  yet  some  there  are,  who,  with  pulses  of  temperate 
and  even  though  warm  and  lively  beat,  are  able  to  prize  such 


MODERN   BRITISH  POETS.  93 

poetry  from  their  earliest  days.  One  young  person  in  particular 
I  knew,  very  like  his  own  description  of 

"  Those  whose  hearts  every  hour  run  wild, 
But  never  yet  did  go  astray ;" 

who  had  read  nothing  but  Wordsworth,  and  had  by  him  been 
plentifully  fed.  I  do  not  mean  that  she  never  skimmed  novels 
nor  dipped  into  periodicals  ;  but  she  never,  properly  speaking, 
read,  i.  e.  comprehended  and  reflected  on  any  other  book.  But 
as  all  knowledge  has  been  taught  by  Professor  Jacotot  from  the 
Telemachus  of  Fenelon,  so  was  she  taught  the  secrets  of  the  uni 
verse  from  Wordsworth's  poems.  He  pointed  out  to  her  how 

"  The  primal  duties  shine  aloft  like  stars, 

The  charities  that  soothe,  and  heal,  and  bless, 
.  Are  scattered  at  the  feet  of  Man — like  flowers." 

He  read  her  lectures  about  the  daisy,  the  robin  red-breast,  and 
the  waterfall.  He  taught  her  to  study  Nature  and  feel  God's 
presence  ;  to  enjoy  and  prize  human  sympathies  without  needing 
the  stimulus  of  human  passions  ;  to  love  beauty  with  a  faith 
which  enabled  her  to  perceive  it  amid  seeming  ugliness,  to  hope 
goodness  so  as  to  create  it.  And  she  was  a  very  pretty  specimen 
of  Wordsworthianism  ;  so  sincere,  so  simple,  so  animated  and  so 
equable,  so  hopeful  and  so  calm.  She  was  confiding  as  an  in 
fant,  and  so  may  remain  till  her  latest  day,  for  she  has  no  touch 
of  idolatry  ;  and  her  trustfulness  is  not  in  any  chosen  person  or 
persons,  but  in  the  goodness  of  God,  who  will  always  protect  those 
who  are  true  to  themselves  and  sincere  towards  others. 

But  the  young,  in  general,  are  idolaters.  They  will  have  their 
private  chapels  of  ease  in  the  great  temple  of  nature  ;  they  will 
ornament,  according  to  fancy,  their  favorite  shrines  ;  and  ah  !  too 
frequently  look  with  aversion  or  contempt  upon  all  others.  Till 
this  ceases  to  be  so,  till  they  can  feel  the  general  beauty  of  de 
sign,  and  live  content  to  be  immortal  in  the  grand  whole,  they 


94  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

cannot  really  love  Wordsworth  ;  nor  can  to  them  "  the  simplest 
flower"  bring  "  thoughts  that  lie  too  deep  for  tears."  Happy  his 
pupils ;  they  are  gentle,  they  are  calm,  and  they  must  always 
be  progressing  in  our  knowledge ;  for,  to  a  mind  which  can  sym 
pathize  with  his,  no  hour,  no  scene  can  possibly  be  barren. 

The  contents  of  the  lately  published  little  volume*  accord  per 
fectly,  in  essentials,  with  those  of  the  preceding  four.  The  son 
nets  are  like  those  he  has  previously  written — equally  unfinished 
as  sonnets,  equally  full  of  meaning  as  poems.  If  it  be  the  case 
with  all  his  poems,  that  scarcely  one  forms  a  perfect  whole  by  it 
self,  but  is  valuable  as  a  leaf  out  of  his  mind,  it  is  peculiarly  so  with 
his  sonnets.  I  presume  he  only  makes  use  of  this  difficult  mode 
of  writing  because  it  is  a  concise  one  for  the  expression  of  a  sin 
gle  thought  or  a  single  mood.  I  know  not  that  one  of  his  sonnets 
is  polished  and  wrought  to  a  point,  as  this  most  artistical  of  all 
poems  should  be  ;  but  neither  do  I  know  one  which  does  not  con 
tain  something  we  would  not  willingly  lose.  As  the  beautiful 
sonnet  which  I  shall  give  presently,  whose  import  is  so  wide  and 
yet  so  easily  understood,  contains  in  the  motto,  what  Messer  Pe- 
trarca  would  have  said  in  the  two  concluding  lines. 

(Miss  not  the  occasion ;  by  the  forelock  take 
That  subtle  power,  the  never-halting  time, 
Lest  a  mere  moment's  putting  off  should  make 

Mischance  almost  as  heavy  as  a  crime) — 
"  Wait,  prithee,  wait !  this  answer  Lesbia  threw 
Forth  to  her  dove,  and  took  no  further  heed ; 
Her  eyes  were  busy,  while  her  fingers  flew 

Across  the  harp,  with  soul-engrossing  speed ; 
But  from  that  bondage  when  her  thoughts  were  freed, 
She  rose,  and  toward  the  shut  casement  drew, 
Whence  the  poor,  unregarded  favourite,  true 
To  old  affections,  had  been  heard  to  plead 
With  flapping  wing  for  entrance — What  a  shriek 

*  Yarrow  Revisited,  and  other  poems. 


MODERN   BRITISH   POETS.  95 

Forced  from  that  voice  so  lately  tuned  to  a  strain 
Of  harmony  ! — a  shriek  of  terror,  pain, 
And  self-reproach  ! — for  from  aloft  a  kite 
Pounced,  and  the  dove,  which  from  its  ruthless  beak 
She  could  not  rescue,  perished  in  her  sight !" 

Even  the  Sonnet  upon  Sonnets,  so  perfect  in  the  details,  is  not 
perfect  as  a  whole. 

However,  I  am  not  so  fastidious  as  some  persons  about  the 
dress  of  a  thought.  These  sonnets  are  so  replete  with  sweetness 
and  spirit,  that  we  can  excuse  their  want  of  symmetry ;  and 
probably  should  not  feel  it,  except  from  comparison  with  more 
highly-finished  works  of  the  same  kind.  One  more  let  me  ex 
tract,  which  should  be  laid  to  heart : 

"  Desponding  father!  mark  this  altered  bough 
So  beautiful  of  late,  with  sunshine  warmed, 
Or  moist  with  dews ;  what  more  unsightly  now, 
Its  blossom  shrivelled,  and  its  fruit,  if  formed, 
Invisible!  yet  Spring  her  genial  brow 
Knits  not  o'er  that  discolouring  and  decay 
As  false  to  expectation.     Nor  fret  thou 
At  like  unlovely  process  in  the  May 
Of  human  life ;  a  stripling's  graces  blow, 
Fade  and  are  shed,  that  from  their  timely  fall 
(Misdeem  it  not  a  cankerous  change)  may  grow 
Rich  mellow  bearings  that  for  thanks  shall  call ; 
In  all  men  sinful  is  it  to  be  slow 
To  hope — in  parents  sinful  above  all." 

"  Yarrow  Revisited"  is  a  beautiful  reverie.    It  ought  to  be  read 
as  such,  for  it  has  no  determined  aim.     These  are  fine  verses. 
"  And  what  for  this  frail  world  were  all 

That  mortals  do  or  suffer, 
Did  no  responsive  harp,  no  pen, 

Memorial  tribute  offer  1 
Yea,  what  were  mighty  Nature's  self  1 

Her  features,  could  they  win  us, 
Unhelped  by  the  poetic  voice 
That  hourly  speaks  within  us  7 


9G  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


'•  Nor  deem  that  localized  romance 

Plays  false  with  our  affections  ; 
Unsanctifies  our  tears — made  sport 

For  fanciful  dejections ; 
Ah,  no !  the  visions  of  the  past 

Sustain  the  heart  in  feeling 
Life  as  she  is — our  changeful  life, 

With  friends  and  kindred  dealing." 

and  this  stanza, 

"  Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment ! 
The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  sons 

For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment ; 
Albeit  sickness,  lingering  yet, 

Has  o'er  their  pillow  brooded ; 
And  care  waylay  their  steps — a  sprite 

Not  easily  eluded." 

reminds  us  of  what  Scott  says  in  his  farewell  to  the  Harp  of  the 
North  : 

"  Much  have  I  owed  thy  strains,  on  life's  long  way, 

Through  secret  woes  the  world  has  never  known, 
When  on  the  weary  night  dawned  wearier  day, 

And  bitter  was  the  grief  devoured  alone, 
That  I  o'erlive  such  woes,  Enchantress,  is  thine  own." 

"  The  Egyptian  Maid"  is  distinguished  by  a  soft  visionary  style 
of  painting,  and  a  stealthy  alluring  movement,  like  the  rippling 
of  advancing  waters,  which,  I  do  not  remember  elsewhere  in 
Wordsworth's  writings. 

"  The  Armenian  Lady's  love"  is  a  fine  balled.  TheTollowing 
verses  are  admirable  for  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  musical  sweet 
ness. 

<(  Judge  both  fugitives  with  knowledge ; 

In  those  old  romantic  days 
Mighty  were  the  soul's  commandments 
To  support,  restrain,  or  raise. 


MODERN   BRITISH  POETS.  97 

Foes  might  hang  upon  their  path,  snakes  rustle  near, 
But  nothing  from  their  inward  selves  had  they  to  fear. 

"  Thought  infirm  ne'er  came  between  them, 

Whether  printing  desert  sands 
With  accordant  steps,  or  gathering 

Forest  fruit  with  social  hands ; 

Or  whispering  like  two  reeds  that  in  the  cold  moonbeam 
Bend  with  the  breeze  their  heads  beside  a  crystal  stream." 

The  Evening  Voluntaries  are  very  beautiful  in  manner,  and  full 
of  suggestions.  The  second  is  worth  extracting  as  a  forcible 
exhibition  of  one  of  Wordsworth's  leading  opinions. 

"  Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life 
That  come  but  as  a  curse  to  party  strife ; 
Not  in  some  hour  when  pleasure  with  a  sigh 
Of  languor,  puts  his  rosy  garland  by; 
Not  in  the  breathing  times  of  that  poor  slave 
Who  daily  piles  up  wealth  in  Mammon's  cave, 
Is  nature  felt,  or  can  be ;  nor  do  words 
Which  practised  talent  readily  affords 
Prove  that  her  hands  have  touched  responsive  chords. 
Nor  has  her  gentle  beauty  power  to  move 
With  genuine  rapture  and  with  fervent  love 
The  soul  of  genius,  if  he  dares  to  take 
Life's  rule  from  passion  craved  for  passion's  sake ; 
Untaught  that  meekness  is  the  cherished  bent 
Of  all  the  truly  great  and  all  the  innocent ; 
But  who  is  innocent  1     By  grace  divine, 
Not  otherwise,  O  Nature !  we  are  thine, 
Through  good  and  evil  thine,  or  just  degree 
Of  rational  and  manly  sympathy, 
To  all  that  earth  from  pensive  hearts  is  stealing, 
And  heaven  is  now  to  gladdened  eyes  revealing. 
Add  every  charm  the  universe  can  show 
Through  every  change  its  aspects  undergo, 
Care  may  be  respited,  but  not  repealed ; 
No  perfect  cure  grows  on  that  bounded  field, 
6 


98  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Vain  is  the  pleasure,  a  false  calm  the  peace, 
If  he  through  whom  alone  our  conflicts  cease, 
Our  virtuous  hopes  without  relapse  advance, 
Come  not  to  speed  the  soul's  deliverance  ; 
To  the  distempered  intellect  refuse 
His  gracious  help,  or  give  what  we  abuse." 

But  nothing  in  this  volume  better  deserves  attention  than  "  Lines 
suggested  by  a  Portrait  from  the  pencil  of  F.  Stone,"  and  "  Stan 
zas  on  the  Power  of  Sound."  The  first  for  a  refinement  and 
justness  of  thought  rarely  surpassed,  and  the  second  for  a  lyric 
flow,  a  swelling  inspiration,  and  a  width  of  range,  which  Words 
worth  has  never  equalled,  except  in  the  "  Ode  on  the  Intimations 
of  Immortality,"  and  the  noble  ode,  or  rather  hymn,  to  Duty.  It 
should  be  read  entire,  and  I  shall  not  quote  a  line.  By  a  singu 
lar  naivete  the  poet  has  prefixed  to  these  stanzas  a  table  of  con 
tents.  This  distrust  of  his  reader  seems  to  prove  that  he  had 
risen  above  his  usual  level. 

What  more  to  the  purpose  can  we  say  about  Wordsworth,  ex 
cept — read  him.  Like  his  beloved  Nature,  to  be  known  he  must 
be  loved.  His  thoughts  may  be  transfused,  but  never  adequately 
interpreted.  Verily, 

"  To  paint  his  being  to  a  grovelling  mind, 
Were  like  describing  pictures  to  the  blind. 

But  no  one,  in  whose  bosom  there  yet  lives  a  spark  of  nature  or 
feeling,  need  despair  of  some  time  sympathizing  with  him  ;  since 
one  of  the  most  brilliantly  factitious  writers  of  the  day,  one  I 
should  have  singled  out  as  seven-fold  shielded  against  his  gentle 
influence,  has  paid  him  so  feeling  a  tribute : 

"  How  must  thy  lone  and  lofty  soul  have  gone 
Exulting  on  its  way,  beyond  the  loud 
Self-taunting  mockery  of  the  scoffers  grown 
Tethered  and  dulled  to  Nature,  in  the  crowd ! 
Earth  has  no  nobler,  no  more  moral  sight 
Than  a  Great  Poet,  whom  the  world  disowns, 


MODERN  BRITISH   POETS. 


But  stills  not,  neither  angers ;  from  his  height 

As  from  a  star,  float  forth  his  sphere-like  tones ; 

He  wits  not  whether  the  vexed  herd  may  hear 

The  music  wafted  to  the  reverent  ear ; 
And  far  man's  wrath,  or  scorn,  or  heed  above, 
Smiles  down  the  calm  disdain  of  his  majestic  love !" 

[From  Stanzas  addressed  by  Bulwer  to  Wordsworth.] 

Read  him,  then,  in  your  leisure  hours,  and  when  you  walk 
into  the  summer  fields  you  shall  find  the  sky  more  blue,  the 
flowers  more  fair,  the  birds  more  musical,  your  minds  more 
awake,  and  your  hearts  more  tender,  for  having  held  communion 
with  him. 

I  have  not  troubled  myself  to  point  out  the  occasional  affecta 
tions  of  Southey,  the  frequent  obscurity  of  Coleridge,  or  the  dif- 
fuseness  of  Wordsworth.  I  should  fear  to  be  treated  like  the 
critic  mentioned  in  the  story  Addison  quotes  from  Boccalini, 
whom  Apollo  rewarded  for  his  labours  by  presenting  him  with  a 
bushel  of  chaff  from  which  all  the  wheat  had  been  winnowed. 
For  myself  I  think  that  where  there  is  such  beauty  and  strength, 
we  can  afford  to  be  silent  about  slight  defects  j  and  that  we  refine 
our  tastes  more  effectually  by  venerating  the  grand  and  lovely, 
than  by  detecting  the  little  and  mean. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.* 


A  TRAGEDY  in  five  acts ! — what  student  of  poetry, — (for,  ad- 
mire,  O  Posterity,  the  strange  fact,  these  days  of  book-craft  pro 
duce  not  only  inspired  singers,  and  enchanted  listeners,  but  stu 
dents  of  poetry,) — what  student  in  this  strange  sort,  I  say,  has 
not  felt  his  eye  rivetted  to  this  title,  as  it  were  written  in  letters 
of  fire  ?  has  not  heard  it  whispered  in  his  secret  breast  ? — In  this 
form  alone  canst  thou  express  thy  thought  in  the  liveliness  of  life, 
this  success  alone  should  satisfy  thy  ambition  ! 

Were  all  these  ardours  caught  from  a  genuine  fire,  such  as, 
in  favouring  eras,  led  the  master  geniuses  by  their  successive  ef 
forts  to  perfect  this  form,  till  it  afforded  the  greatest  advantages 
in  the  smallest  space,  we  should  be  glad  to  warm  and  cheer  us 
at  a  very  small  blaze.  But  it  is  not  so.  The  drama,  at  least 
the  English  drama  of  our  day,  shows  a  reflected  light,  not  a 
spreading  fire.  It  is  not  because  the  touch  of  genius  has  roused 
genius  to  production,  but  because  the  admiration  of  genius  has 
made  talent  ambitious,  that  the  harvest  is  still  so  abundant. 

This  is  not  an  observation  to  which  there  are  no  exceptions, 
some  we  shall  proceed  to  specify,  but  those  who  have,  with  any 
care,  watched  this  ambition  in  their  own  minds,  or  analyzed  its 

*  The  Patrician's  Daughter,  a  tragedy,  in  five  acts,  by  J.  Westland  Marston : 
London:  C.  Mitchel,  Red  Lion  Court,  Fleet  Street,  1841. 

Athelwold,  a  tragedy  in  five  acts,  by  W.  Smith,  Esq.  j  William  Blackwood 
and  Sons.  London  and  Edinburgh,  1842. 

Strafford,  a  tragedy,  by  John  Sterling.  London ;  Edward  Moxon,  Dover 
Street,  1843. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  101 

results  in  the  works  of  others,  cannot  but  feel  that  the  drama  is 
not  a  growth  native  to  this  age,  and  that  the  numerous  grafts  pro 
duce  little  fruit,  worthy  the  toil  they  cost. 

3Tis  indeed,  hard  to  believe  that  the  drama,  once  invented, 
should  cease  to  be  a  habitual  and  healthy  expression  of  the  mind. 
It  satisfies  so  fully  the  wants  both  of  sense  and  soul,  supplying 
both  deep  and  light  excitements,  simple,  comprehensive,  and  vari 
ous,  adapted  either  to  great  national  and  religious  subjects,  or  to 
the  private  woes  of  any  human  breast.  The  space  and  the  time 
occupied,  the  vehicle  of  expression,  fit  it  equally  for  the  entertain 
ment  of  an  evening,  or  the  closet  theme  of  meditative  years. 
jEdipus,  Macbeth,  Wallenstein,  chain  us  for  the  hour,  lead  us 
through  the  age. 

Who  would  not  covet  this  mirror,  which,  like  that  of  the  old 
wizards,  not  only  reflects,  but  reproduces  the  whole  range  of 
forms,  this  key,  which  unlocks  the  realms  of  speculation  at  the 
hour  when  the  lights  are  boldest  and  the  shadows  most  sugges 
tive,  this  goblet,  whose  single  sparkling  draught  is  locked  from 
common  air  by  walls  of  glittering  ice  ?  An  artful  wild,  where 
nature  finds  no  bound  to  her  fertility,  while  art  steadily  draws  to 
a  whole  its  linked  chain. 

Were  it  in  man's  power  by  choosing  the  best,  to  attain  the 
best  in  any  particular  kind,  we  would  not  blame  the  young  poet, 
if  he  always  chose  the  drama. 

But  by  the  same  law  of  faery  which  ordains  that  wishes  shall 
be  granted  unavailingly  to  the  wisher,  no  form  of  art  will  suc 
ceed  with  him  to  whom  it  is  the  object  of  deliberate  choice. 
It  must  grow  from  his  nature  in  a  certain  position,  as  it  first  did 
from  the  general  mind  in  a  certain  position,  and  be  no  garment 
taken  from  the  shining  store  to  be  worn  at  a  banquet,  but  a 
real  body  gradually  woven  and  assimilated  from  the  earth  and 
sky  which  environed  the  poet  in  his  youthful  years.  He  may 


102  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

learn  from  the  old  Greek  or  Hindoo,  but  he  must  speak  in  his 
mother-tongue. 

It  was  a  melancholy  praise  bestowed  on  the  German  Iphigenia, 
that  it  was  an  echo  of  the  Greek  mind.  O  give  us  something 
rather  than  Greece  more  Grecian,  so  new,  so  universal,  so  indi 
vidual  ! 

An  "  After  Muse,"  an  appendix  period  must  come  to  every 
kind  of  greatness.  It  is  the  criticism  of  the  grandchild  upon  the 
inheritance  bequeathed  by  his  ancestors.  It  writes  madrigals 
and  sonnets,  it  makes  Brutus  wigs,  and  covers  old  chairs  with 
damask  patch-work,  yet  happy  those  who  have  no  affection  to 
wards  such  virtue  and  entertain  their  friends  with  a  pipe  cut  from 
their  own  grove,  rather  than  display  an  ivory  lute  handed  down 
from  the  old  time,  whose  sweetness  we  want  the  skill  to  draw 
forth. 

The  drama  cannot  die  out :  it  is  too  naturally  born  of  certain 
periods  of  national  development.  It  is  a  stream  that  will  sink  in 
one  place,  only  to  rise  to  light  in  another.  As  it  has  appeared 
successively  in  Hindostan,  Greece,  (Rome  we  cannot  count,) 
England,  Spain,  France,  Italy,  Germany,  so  has  it  yet  to  appear 
in  New  Holland,  New  Zealand,  and  among  ourselves,  when  we 
too  shall  be  made  new  by  a  sunrise  of  our  own,  when  our  popula 
tion  shall  have  settled  into  a  homogeneous,  national  life,  and  we 
have  attained  vigour  to  walk  in  our  own  way,  make  our  own 
world,  and  leave  off  copying  Europe. 

At  present  our  attempts  are,  for  the  most  part,  feebler  than 
those  of  the  British  "  After  Muse,"  for  our  play-wrights  are  net 
from  youth  so  fancy-fed  by  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  the  tables 
of  the  lords  of  literature,  and  having  no  relish  for  the  berries  of 
our  own  woods,  the  roots  of  our  own  fields,  they  are  meagre,  and 
their  works  bodiless  ;  yet,  as  they  are  pupils  of  the  British  school, 
their  works  need  not  be  classed  apart,  and  I  shall  mention  one  or 
two  of  the  most  note-worthy  by-and-by. 


THE   MODERN   DRAMA.  103 

England  boasts  one  Shakspeare — ah  !  that  alone  was  more  than 
the  share  of  any  one  kingdom, — such  a  king  !  There  Apollo 
himself  tended  sheep,  and  there  is  not  a  blade  of  the  field  but 
glows  with  a  peculiar  light.  At  times  we  are  tempted  to  think 
him  the  only  genius  earth  has  ever  known,  so  beyond  compare  is 
he,  when  looked  at  as  the  myriad-minded ;  then  he  seems  to  sit 
at  the  head  of  the  stream  of  thought,  a  lone  god  beside  his  urn  ; 
the  minds  of  others,  lower  down,  feed  the  current  to  a  greater 
width,  but  they  come  not  near  him.  Happily,  in  the  constructive 
power,  in  sweep  of  soul,  others  may  be  named  beside  him  :  he  is 
not  always  all  alone. 

Historically,  such  isolation  was  not  possible.  Such  a  being 
implies  a  long  ancestry,  a  longer  posterity.  We  discern  immor 
tal  vigour  in  the  stem  that  rose  to  this  height. 

But  his  children  should  not  hope  to  walk  in  his  steps.  Pros- 
pero  gave  Miranda  a  sceptre,  not  his  wand.  His  genius  is  too 
great  for  his  followers,  they  dwindle  in  its  shadow.  They  see 
objects  so  early  with  his  eyes,  they  can  hardly  learn  to  use  their 
own.  "  They  seek  to  produce  from  themselves,  but  they  only 
reproduce  him." 

He  is  the  cause  why  so  much  of  England's  intellect  tends  to 
wards  the  drama,  a  cause  why  it  so  often  fails.  His  works  bring 
despair  to  genius,  they  are  the  bait  and  the  snare  of  talent. 

The  impetus  he  has  given,  the  lustre  with  which  he  dazzles, 
are  a  chief  cause  of  the  dramatic  efforts,  one  cause  of  failure,  but 
not  the  only  one,  for  it  seems  probable  that  European  life  tends 
to  new  languages,  and  for  a  while  neglecting  this  form  of  repre 
sentation,  would  explore  the  realms  of  sound  and  sight,  to  make 
to  itself  other  organs,  which  must  for  a  time  supersede  the 
drama. 

There  is,  perhaps,  a  correspondence  between  the  successions 
of  literary  vegetation  with  those  of  the  earth's  surface,  where,  if 
you  burn  or  cut  down  an  ancient  wood,  the  next  offering  of  the 


104  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

soil  will  not  be  in  the  same  kind,  but  raspberries  and  purple 
flowers  will  succeed  the  oak,  poplars  the  pine.  Thus,  beneath 
the  roots  of  the  drama,  lay  seeds  of  the  historic  novel,  the  roman 
tic  epic,  which  were  to  take  its  place  to  the  reader,  and  for  the 
scene,  the  oratorios,  the  opera,  and  ballet. 

Music  is  the  great  art  of  the  time.  Its  dominion  is  constantly 
widening,  its  powers  are  more  profoundly  recognized.  In  the 
forms  it  has  already  evolved,  it  is  equal  to  representing  any  sub 
ject,  can  address  the  entire  range  of  thoughts  and  emotions. 
These  forms  have  not  yet  attained  their  completeness,  and  al 
ready  we  discern  many  others  hovering  in  the  vast  distances  of 
the  Tone- world. 

The  opera  is  in  this  inferior  to  the  drama,  that  it  produces  its 
effects  .by  the  double  method  of  dialogue  and  song.  So  easy 
seems  it  to  excite  a  feeling,  and  by  the  orchestral  accompani 
ments  to  sustain  it  to  the  end,  that  we  have  not  the  intellectual 
exhilaration  which  accompanies  a  severer  enjoyment.  For  the 
same  reasons,  nothing  can  surpass  the  mere  luxury  of  a  fine 
opera. 

The  oratorio,  so  great,  so  perfect  in  itself,  is  limited  in  its 
subjects ;  and  these,  though  they  must  be  of  the  graver  class,  do 
not  properly  admit  of  tragedy.  Minds  cannot  dwell  on  special 
griefs  and  seeming  partial  fates,  when  circling  the  universe  on 
the  wings  of  the  great  chorus,  sharing  the  will  of  the  Divine, 
catching  the  sense  of  humanity. 

Thus  much,  as  has  been  given,  we  demand  from  music  yet 
another  method,  simpler  and  more  comprehensive  than  these. 
In  instrumental  music  this  is  given  by  the  symphony,  but  we 
want  another  that  shall  admit  the  voice,  too,  and  permit  the  asso 
ciation  of  the  spectacle. 

The  ballet  seems  capable  of  an  infinite  perfection.  There  is 
no  boundary  here  to  the  powers  of  design  and  expression,  if  only 
fit  artists  can  be  formed  mentally  and  practically.  What  could 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  105 

not  a  vigorous  imagination  do,  if  it  had  delicate  Ariels  to  enact 
its  plans,  with  that  facility  and  completeness  which  pantomine 
permits  ?  There  is  reason  to  think  we  shall  see  the  language  of 
the  eye,  of  gesture  and  attitude  carried  to  a  perfection,  body  made 
pliant  to  the  inspirations  of  spirit,  as  it  can  hardly  be  where 
spoken  words  are  admitted  to  eke  out  deficiencies.  From  our 
America  we  hope  some  form  entirely  new,  not  yet  to  be  pre 
dicted,  while,  though  the  desire  for  dramatic  representation  ex 
ists,  as  it  always  must  where  there  is  any  vigorous  life,  the  habit 
of  borrowing  is  so  pervasive,  that  in  the  lately  peopled  prairies 
of  the  West,  where  civilization  is  but  five  years  old,  we  find  the 
young  people  acting  plays,  indeed,  and  "  on  successive  nights  to 
overflowing  audiences," — but  what  ?  Some  drama,  ready  made 
to  hand  by  the  fortunes  of  Boon,  or  the  defeats  of  Black  Hawk  ? 
Not  at  all,  but — Tamerlane  and  the  like — Bombastes  Furioso, 
and  King  Cambyses  vein  to  the  "  storekeepers"  and  labourers  of 
republican  America. 

In  this  connection  let  me  mention  the  drama  of  Metamora,  a 
favourite  on  the  boards  in  our  cities,  which,  if  it  have  no  other 
merit,  yields  something  that  belongs  to  this  region,  Forrest  hav 
ing  studied  for  this  part  the  Indian  gait  and  expression  with  some 
success.  He  is  naturally  adapted  to  the  part  by  the  strength  and 
dignity  of  his  person  and  outline. 

To  return  to  Britain. 

The  stage  was  full  of  life,  after  the  drama  began  to  decline, 
and  the  actors,  whom  Shakspeare  should  have  had  to  represent 
his  parts,  were  born,  after  his  departure,  from  the  dignity  given  to 
the  profession  by  the  existence  of  such  occasion  for  it.  And 
again,  out  of  the  existence  of  such  actors  rose  hosts  of  play 
wrights,  who  wrote  not  to  embody  the  spirit  of  life,  in  forms 
shifting  and  interwoven  in  the  space  of  a  spectacle,  but  to  give 
room  for  display  of  the  powers  of  such  and  such  actors.  A 
little  higher  stood  those,  who  excelled  in  invention  of  plots,  preg- 

6* 


100  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


nant  crises,  or  brilliant  point  of  dialogue,  but  both  degraded  the 
drama,  Sheridan  scarcely  less  than  Gibber ;  and  Garrick  and  the 
Kembles,  while  they  lighted  up  the  edifice,  left  slow  fire  for  its 
destruction. 

A  partial  stigma  rests,  as  it  has  always  rested,  on  the  profession 
of  the  actor.  At  first  flash,  we  marvel  why.  •  Why  do  not  men 
bow  in  reverence  before  those,  who  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature, 
and  not  to  common  nature,  but  to  her  most  exalted,  profound,  and 
impassioned  hours  ? 

Some  have  imputed  this  to  an  association  with  the  trickeries 
and  coarse  illusions  of  the  scene,  with  pasteboard  swords  and 
crowns,  mock-thunder  and  tinfoil  moonshine.  But  in  what  pro 
fession  are  not  mummeries  practised,  and  ludicrous  accessories 
interposed  ?  Are  the  big  wig  of  the  barrister,  the  pen  behind  the 
ear  of  the  merchant,  so  reverend  in  our  eyes  ? 

Some  say  that  it  is  because  we  pay  the  actor  for  amusing  us  ; 
but  we  pay  other  men  for  all  kinds  of  service,  without  feeling 
them  degraded  thereby.  And  is  he,  who  has  administered  an 
exhilarating  draught  to  my  mind,  in  less  pleasing  associations 
there,  than  he  who  has  administered  a  febrifuge  to  the  body  ? 

Again,  that  the  strong  excitements  of  the  scene  and  its  motley 
life  dispose  to  low  and  sensual  habits. 

But  the  instances,  where  all  such  temptations  have  been  re 
sisted,  are  so  many,  compared  with  the  number  engaged,  that 
every  one  must  feel  that  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  temptation  is  de 
termined  by  the  man. 

Why  is  it  then  that  to  the  profession,  which  numbers  in  its 
ranks  Shakspeare  and  Moliere,  which  is  dignified  by  such  figures 
as  Siddons,  Talma,  and  Macready,  respect  is  less  willingly  con 
ceded  than  applause  ?  Why  is  not  discrimination  used  here  as 
elsewhere  ?  Is  it  the  same  thing  to  act  the  "  Lady  in  Comus," 
and  the  Lady  in  "  She  stoops  to  Conquer,"  Hamlet,  Prince  of 
Denmark,  and  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  ?  Is  not  the  actor,  accord- 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  107 

ing  to  his  sphere,  a  great  artist  or  a  poor  buffoon,  just  as  a  law 
yer  may  become  a  chancellor  of  the  three  kingdoms,  or  a  base 
pettifogger  ? 

Prejudice  on  this  score,  must  be  the  remnant  of  a  barbarism 
which  saw  minstrels  the  pensioned  guests  at  barons'  tables,  and 
murdered  Correggio  beneath  a  sack  of  copper.  As  man  better 
understands  that  his  positive  existence  is  only  effigy  of  the  ideal, 
and  that  nothing  is  useful  or  honourable  which  does  not  advance 
the  reign  of  Beauty,  Art  and  Artists  rank  constantly  higher,  as 
one  with  Religion.  Let  Artists  also  know  their  calling,  let  the 
Actor  live  and  die  a  Roman  Actor,*  more  than  Raphael  shall  be 

*  We  may  be  permitted  to  copy,  in  this  connection,  the  fine  plea  of  Massin- 
ger's  "  Roman  Actor." 

PARIS.     If  desire  of  honor  was  the  base 

On  which  the  building  of  the  Roman  empire 

Was  raised  up  to  this  height;  if,  to  inflame 

The  noble  youth,  with  an  ambitious  heat, 

To  endure  the  posts  of  danger,  nay,  of  death, 

To  be  thought  worthy  the  triumphal  wreath, 

By  glorious  undertakings,  may  deserve 

Reward,  or  favor  from  the  commonwealth ; 

Actors  may  put  in  for  as  large  a  share, 

As  all  the  sects  of  the  philosophers : 

They  with  cold  precepts  (perhaps  seldom  read) 

Deliver  what  an  honorable  thing 

The  active  virtue  is  :  but  does  that  fire 

The  blood,  or  swell  the  veins  with  emulation, 

To  be  both  good  and  great,  equal  to  that 

Which  is  presented  on  our  theatres  1 

Let  a  good  actor,  in  a  lofty  scene, 

Show  great  Alcides,  honored  in  the  sweat 

Of  his  twelve  labors  ;  or  a  bold  Camillus, 

Forbidding  Rome  to  be  redeemed  with  gold 

From  the  insulting  Gauls,  or  Scipio, 

After  his  victories,  imposing  tribute 

On  conquered  Carthage ;  if  done  to  the  life, 


108  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

elected  Cardinals,  and  of  a  purer  church  ;  and  it  shall  be  ere 
long  remembered  as  dream  and  fable,  that  the  representative  of 
"  my  Cid"  could  not  rest  in  consecrated  ground. 

As  if  they  saw  their  dangers,  and  their  glories, 
And  did  partake  with  them  in  their  rewards, 
All  that  have  any  spark  of  Roman  in  them, 
The  slothful  arts  laid  by,  contend  to  be 
Like  those  they  see  presented. 

SECOND  SENATOR.     He  has  put 
The  consuls  to  their  whisper. 

PARIS.     But  'tis  urged 

That  we  corrupt  youth,  and  traduce  superiors. 

When  do  we  bring  a  vice  upon  the  stage, 

That  does  go  off  unpunished  1     Do  we  teach, 

By  the  success  of  wicked  undertakings, 

Others  to  tread  in  their  forbidden  steps  7 

We  show  no  arts  of  Lydian  panderism, 

Corinthian  poisons,  Persian  flatteries, 

But  mulcted  so  in  the  conclusion,  that 

Even  those  spectators,  that  were  so  inclined, 

Go  home  changed  men.     And  for  traducing  such 

That  are  above  us,  publishing  to  the  world 

Their  secret  crimes,  we  are  as  innocent 

As  such  as  are  born  dumb.     When  we  present 

An  heir,  that  does  conspire  against  the  life 

Of  his  dear  parent,  numbering  every  hour 

He  lives,  as  tedious  to  him ;  if  there  be 

Among  the  auditors  one,  whose  conscience  tells  him 

He  is  of  the  same  mould, — WE  CANNOT  HELP  IT. 

Or,  bringing  on  the  stage  a  loose  adulteress, 

That  does  maintain  the  riotous  expense 

Of  her  licentious  paramour,  yet  suffers 

The  lawful  pledges  of  a  former  bed 

To  starve  the  while  for  hunger;  if  a  matron, 

However  great  in  fortune,  birth,  or  titles, 

Cry  out,  'Tis  writ  for  me ! — WE  CANNOT  HELP  IT. 

Or,  when  a  covetous  man's  expressed,  whose  wealth 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  109 

In  Germany  these  questions  have  already  been  fairly  weighed, 
and  those  who  read  the  sketches  of  her  great  actors,  as  given  by 
Tieck,  know  that  there,  at  least,  they  took  with  the  best  minds  of 
their  age  and  country  their  proper  place. 

And  who,  that  reads  Joanna  Baillie's  address  to  Mrs.  Siddons, 
but  feels  that  the  fate,  which  placed  his  birth  in  another  age  from 
her,  has  robbed  him  of  full  sense  of  a  kind  of  greatness  whose 
absence  none  other  can  entirely  supply. 


The  impassioned  changes  of  thy  beauteous  face, 
Thy  arms  impetuous  tost,  thy  robe's  wide  flow, 
And  the  dark  tempest  gathered  on  thy  brow, 
""'hat  time  thy  flashing  eye  and  lip  of  scorn 
Down  to  the  dust  thy  mimic  foes  have  borne  ; 
Remorseful  musings  sunk  to  deep  dejection, 
The  fixed  and  yearning  looks  of  strong  affection ; 


Arithmetic  cannot  number,  and  whose  lordships 

A  falcon  in  one  day  cannot  fly  over ; 

Yet  he  so  sordid  in  his  mind,  so  griping 

As  not  to  afford  himself  the  necessaries 

To  maintain  life,  if  a  patrician, 

(Though  honored  with  a  consulship)  find  himself 

Touched  to  the  quick  in  this, — WE  CANNOT  HELP  IT. 

Or,  when  we  show  a  judge  that  is  corrupt, 

And  will  give  up  his  sentence,  as  he  favors 

The  person,  not  the  cause;  saving  the  guilty 

If  of  his  faction,  and  as  oft  condemning 

The  innocent,  out  of  particular  spleen ; 

If  any  in  this  reverend  assembly, 

Nay,  even  yourself,  my  lord,  that  are  the  image 

Of  absent  Caesar,  feel  something  in  your  bosom 

That  puts  you  in  remembrance  of  things  past, 

Or  things  intended, — 'Tis  NOT  IN  us  TO  HELP  IT. 

I  have  said,  my  lord,  and  now,  as  you  find  cause, 

Or  censure  us,  or  free  us  with  applause. 


110  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

The  actioned  turmoil  of  a  bosom  rending, 
Where  pity,  love,  and  honor,  are  contending ; 

****** 
Thy  varied  accents,  rapid,  fitful,  slow, 
Loud  rage,  and  fear's  snatch'd  whisper,  quick  and  low, 
The  burst  of  stifled  love,  the  wail  of  grief, 
And  tones  of  high  command,  full,  solemn,  brief; 
The  change  of  voice  and  emphasis  that  threw 
Light  on  obscurity,  and  brought  to  view 
Distinctions  nice,  when  grave  or  comic  mood, 
Or  mingled  humors,  terse  and  new,  elude 
Common  perception,  as  earth's  smallest  things 
To  size  and  form  the  vesting  hoar-frost  brings. 

*  *  *  *         *         *         * 

*  *     *    Thy  light        *        *        *        * 

*  from  the  mental  world  can  never  fade, 

Till  all,  who've  seen  thee,  in  the  grave  are  laid. 
Thy  graceful  form  still  moves  in  nightly  dreams 
And  what  thou  wert  to  the  rapt  sleeper  seems, 
While  feverish  fancy  oft  doth  fondly  trace 
Within  her  curtained  couch  thy  wondrous  face  ; 
Yea,  and  to  many  a  wight,  bereft  and  lone, 
In  musing  hours,  though  all  to  thee  unknown, 
Soothing  his  early  course  of  good  and  ill, 
With  all  thy  potent  charm  thou  actest  still. 

Perhaps  the  effect  produced  by  Mrs.  Siddons  is  still  more 
vividly  shown  in  the  character  of  Jane  de  Montfort,  which  seems 
modelled  from  her.  We  have  no  such  lotus  cup  to  drink. 
Mademoiselle  Rachel  indeed  seems  to  possess  as  much  electric 
force  as  Mrs.  Siddons,  but  not  the  same  imposing  individuality. 
The  Kembles  and  Talma  were  cast  in  the  royal  mint  to  com 
memorate  the  victories  of  genius.  That  Mrs.  Siddons  even 
added  somewhat  of  congenial  glory  to  Shakspeare's  own  concep 
tions,  those  who  compare  the  engravings  of  her  in  Lady  Macbeth 
and  Catherine  of  Arragon,  with  the  picture  drawn  in  their  own 
minds  from  acquaintance  with  these  beings  in  the  original,  cannot 
doubt ;  the  sun  is  reflected  with  new  glory  in  the  majestic  river. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  Ill 

Yet,  under  all  these  disadvantages  there  have  risen  up  often,  in 
England,  and  even  in  our  own  country,  actors  who  gave  a  reason 
for  the  continued  existence  of  the  theatre,  who  sustained  the 
ill-educated,  flimsy  troop,  which  commonly  fills  it,  and  pro 
voked  both  the  poet  and  the  playwright  to  turn  their  powers  in 
that  direction. 

The  plays  written  for  them,  though  no  genuine  dramas,  are 
not  without  value  as  spectacle,  and  the  opportunity,  however 
lame,  gives  freer  play  to  the  actor's  powers,  than  would  the  sim 
ple  recitation,  by  which  some  have  thought  any  attempt  at  acting 
whole  plays  should  be  superseded.  And  under  the  starring  sys 
tem  it  is  certainly  less  painful,  on  the  whole,  to  see  a  play  of 
Knowles's  than  one  of  Shakspeare's  ;  for  the  former,  with  its 
frigid  diction,  unnatural  dialogue,  and  academic  figures,  affords 
scope  for  the  actor  to  produce  striking  effects,  and  to  show  a 
knowledge  of  the  passions,  while  all  the  various  beauties  of 
Shakspeare  are  traduced  by  the  puppets  who  should  repeat  them, 
and  the  being  closer  to  nature,  brings  no  one  figure  into  such  bold 
relief  as  is  desirable  when  there  is  only  one  actor.  Virginius, 
the  Hunchback,  Metamora,  are  plays  quite  good  enough  for  the 
stage  at  present ;  and  they  are  such  as  those  who  attend  the 
representations  of  plays  will  be  very  likely  to  write. 

Another  class  of  dramas  are  those  written  by  the  scholars  and 
thinkers,  whose  tastes  have  been  formed,  and  whose  ambition 
kindled,  by  acquaintance  with  the  genuine  English  dramatists. 
These  again  may  be  divided  into  two  sorts.  One,  those  who 
have  some  idea  to  bring  out,  which  craves  a  form  more  lively 
than  the  essay,  more  compact  than  the  narrative,  and  who  there 
fore  adopt  (if  Hibernicism  may  be  permitted)  the  dialogued 
monologue  to  very  good  purpose.  Such  are  Festus,  Paracelsus, 
Coleridge's  Remorse,  Shelley's  Cenci ;  Miss  Baillie's  plays, 
though  meant  for  action,  and  with  studied  attempts  to  vary  them 
by  the  lighter  shades  of  common  nature,  which,  from  her  want 


112  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

of  lively  power,  have  no  effect,  except  to  break  up  the  interest, 
and  Byron's  are  of  the  same  class  ;  they  have  no  present  life,  no 
action,  no  slight  natural  touches,  no  delicate  lines,  as  of  one  who 
paints  his  portrait  from  the  fact ;  their  interest  is  poetic,  nature 
apprehended  in  her  spirit ;  philosophic,  actions  traced  back  to 
their  causes  ;  but  not  dramatic,  nature  reproduced  in  actual  pre 
sence.  This,  as  a  form  for  the  closet,  is  a  very  good  one,  and 
well  fitted  to  the  genius  of  our  time.  Whenever  the  writers  of 
such  fail,  it  is  because  they  have  the  stage  in  view,  instead  of  con 
sidering  the  dramatis  persona  merely  as  names  for  classes  of 
thoughts.  Somewhere  betwixt  these  and  the  mere  acting  plays 
stand  such  as  Maturin's  Bertram,  Talfourd's  Ion,  and  (now  before 
me)  Longfellow's  Spanish  Student.  Bertram  is  a  good  acting 
play,  that  is,  it  gives  a  good  opportunity  to  one  actor,  and  its 
painting,  though  coarse,  is  effective.  Ion,  also,  can  be  acted, 
though  its  principal  merit  is  in  the  nobleness  of  design,  and  in  de 
tails  it  is  too  elaborate  for  the  scene.  Still  it  does  move  and  melt, 
and  it  is  honorable  to  us  that  a  piece  constructed  on  so  high  a 
motive,  whose  tragedy  is  so  much  nobler  than  the  customary  forms 
of  passion,  can  act  on  audiences  long  unfamiliar  with  such  reli 
gion.  The  Spanish  Student  might  also  be  acted,  though  with  no 
great  effect,  for  there  is  little  movement  in  the  piece,  or  develop 
ment  of  character ;  its  chief  merit  is  in  the  graceful  expression 
of  single  thoughts  or  fancies  ;  as  here, 

All  the  means  of  action 
The  shapeless  masses,  the  materials, 
Lie  every  where  about  us.     What  we  need 
Is  the  celestial  fire  to  change  the  flint 
Into  transparent  crystal,  bright  and  clear. 
That  fire  is  genius  !     The  rude  peasant  sits 
At  evening  in  his  smoky  cot,  and  draws 
With  charcoal  uncouth  figures  on  the  wall. 
The  son  of  genius  comes,  foot-sore  with  travel, 
And  begs  a  shelter  from  the  inclement  night. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  113 

He  takes  the  charcoal  from  the  peasant's  hand, 

And  by  the  magic  of  his  touch  at  once 

Transfigured,  all  its  hidden  virtues  shine, 

And  in  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  clown, 

It  gleams  a  diamond.     Even  thus  transformed, 

Rude  popular  traditions  and  old  tales 

Shine  as  immortal  poems,  at  the  touch 

Of  some  poor  houseless,  homeless,  wandering  bard, 

Who  had  but  a  night's  lodging  for  his  pains. 

But  there  are  brighter  dreams  than  those  of  fame, 

Which  are  the  dreams  of  love !     Out  of  the  heart 

Rises  the  bright  ideal  of  these  dreams, 

As  from  some  woodland  fount  a  spirit  rises 

And  sinks  again  into  its  silent  deeps, 

Ere  the  enamoured  knight  can  touch  her  robe  ! 

'T  is  this  ideal,  that  the  soul  of  man, 

Like  the  enamoured  knight  beside  the  fountain, 

Waits  for  upon  the  margin  of  life's  stream; 

Waits  to  behold  her  rise  from  the  dark  waters 

Clad  in  a  mortal  shape  !     Alas  !  how  many 

Must  wait  in  vain  !     The  stream  flows  evermore, 

But  from  its  silent  deeps  no  spirit  rises. 

Or  here, 

I  will  forget  her !     All  dear  recollections 
Pressed  in  my  heart,  like  flowers  within  a  book, 
Shall  be  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the  winds ; 
I  will  forget  her !     But  perhaps  hereafter, 
When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  the  world, 
A  voice  within  her  will  repeat  my  name, 
And  she  will  say,  'He  was  indeed  my  friend.' 

Passages  like  these  would  give  great  pleasure  in  the  chaste  ana 
care  fully- shaded  recitation  of  Macready  or  Miss  Tree.  The  style 
of  the  play  is,  throughout,  elegant  and  simple.  Neither  the  plot 
nor  characters  can  boast  any  originality,  but  the  one  is  woven 
with  skill  and  taste,  the  others  very  well  drawn,  for  so  slight  han 
dling. 

We  had  purposed  in  this  place  to  notice  some  of  the  modern 


114  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

French  plays,  which  hold  about  the  same  relation  to  the  true 
drama,  but  this  task  must  wait  a  more  convenient  season. 

One  of  the  plays  at  the  head  of  this  notice  also  comes  in  here, 
The  Patrician's  Daughter,  which,  though  a  failure  as  a  tragedy, 
from  an  improbability  in  the  plot,  and  a  want  of  power  to  touch 
the  secret  springs  of  passion,  yet  has  the  merits  of  genteel  com 
edy  in  the  unstrained  and  flowing  dialogue,  and  dignity  in  the 
conception  of  character.  A  piece  like  this  pleases,  if  only  by  the 
atmosphere  of  intellect  and  refinement  it  breathes. 

But  a  third  class,  of  higher  interest,  is  the  historical,  such  as 
may  well  have  been  suggested  to  one  whose  youth  was  familiar 
with  Shakspeare's  Julius  Csesar,  and  Kings  of  England.  Who 
that  wears  in  his  breast  an  English  heart,  and  has  feeling  to  ap 
preciate  the  capabilities  of  the  historic  drama,  but  must  burn  with 
desire  to  use  the  occasions  offered  in  profusion  by  the  chronicles 
of  England  and  kindred  nations,  to  adorn  the  inherited  halls  with 
one  tapestry  more.  It  is  difficult  to  say  why  such  an  attempt 
should  fail,  yet  it  does  fail,  and  each  effort  in  this  kind  shows 
plainly  that  the  historic  novel,  not  the  historic  drama,  is  the  form 
appropriate  to  the  genius  of  our  day.  Yet  these  failures  come  so 
near  success,  the  spent  arrows  show  so  bold  and  strong  a  hand  in 
the  marksman,  that  we  would  not,  for  much,  be  without  them. 

First  and  highest  in  this  list  comes  Philip  Van  Artevelde,  of 
which  we  can  say  that  it  bears  new  fruit  on  the  twentieth  read 
ing.  At  first  it  fell  rather  coldly  on  the  mind,  coming  as  it  did, 
not  as  the  flower  of  full  flushed  being,  but  with  the  air  of  an  ex 
periment  made  to  verify  a  theory.  It  came  with  wrinkled  critic's 
brow,  consciously  antagonistic  to  a  tendency  of  the  age,  and  we 
looked  on  it  with  cold  critic's  eye,  unapt  to  weep  or  glow  at  its 
bidding.  But,  on  closer  acquaintance,  we  see  that  this  way  of 
looking,  though  induced  by  the  author,  is  quite  unjust.  It  is  really 
a  noble  work  that  teaches  us,  a  genuine  growth  that  makes  us 
grow,  a  reflex  of  nature  from  the  calm  depths  of  a  large  soul. 


THE   MODERN   DRAMA.  115 

The  grave  and  comprehensive  character  of  the  ripened  man,  of 
him  whom  fire,  and  light,  and  earth  have  tempered  to  an  intelli 
gent  delegate  of  humanity,  has  never  been  more  justly  felt,  rarely 
more  life-like  painted,  than  by  this  author.  The  Flemish  blood 
and  the  fiery  soul  are  both  understood.  Philip  stands  among  his 
compatriots  the  man  mature,  not  premature  or  alien.  He  is 
what  they  should  be,  his  life  the  reconciling  word  of  his  age  and 
nation,  the  thinking  head  of  an  unintelligent  and  easily  distem 
pered  body,  a  true  king.  The  accessories  are  all  in  keeping,  sap 
lings  of  the  same  wood.  The  eating,  drinking,  quarrelling  citi 
zens,  the  petulant  sister,  the  pure  and  lovely  bride,  the  sorrowful 
and  stained,  but  deep-souled  mistress,  the  monk,  much  a  priest, 
but  more  a  man,  all  belong  to  him  and  all  require  him.  We  can 
not  think  of  any  part  of  this  piece  without  its  centre,  and  this  fact 
proclaims  it  a  great  work  of  art.  It  is  great,  the  conception  of 
the  swelling  tide  of  fortune,  on  which  this  figure  is  upborne  se 
renely  eminent,  of  the  sinking  of  that  tide  with  the  same  face 
rising  from  the  depths,  veiled  with  the  same  cloud  as  the  heavens, 
in  its  sadness  calmer  yet.  Too  wise  and  rich  a  nature  he,  too 
intelligent  of  the  teachings  of  earth  and  heaven  to  be  a  stoic,  but 
too  comprehensive,  too  poetic,  to  be  swayed,  though  he  might  be 
moved,  by  chance  or  passion.  Some  one  called  him  Philip  the 
Imperturbable,  but  his  greatness  is,  that  he  is  not  imperturbable, 
only,  as  the  author  announces,  "  not  passion's  slave."  The  gods 
would  not  be  gods,  if  they  were  ignorant,  or  impassive  ;  they  must 
be  able  to  see  all  that  men  see,  only  from  a  higher  point  of  view. 

Such  pictures  make  us  willing  to  live  in  the  widest  sense,  to 
bear  all  that  may  be  borne,  for  we  see  that  virgin  gold  may  be 
fit  to  adorn  a  scabbard,  but  the  good  blade  is  made  of  tempered 
steel . 

Justice  has  not  been  done  by  the  critics  to  the  admirable  con 
duct  of  the  Second  Part,  because  our  imaginations  were  at  first  so 
struck  by  the  full  length  picture  of  the  hero  in  the  conquering 


116  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

days  of  the  First  Part,  and  it  was  painful  to  see  its  majesty  veil 
ed  with  crape,  its  towering  strength  sink  to  ruins  in  the  second. 
Then  there  are  more  grand  and  full  passages  in  the  First  which 
can  be  detached  and  recollected  ;  as, 

We  have  not  time  to  mourn ;  the  worse  for  us, 
He  that  lacks  time  to  mourn  lacks  time  to  mend ; 
Eternity  mourns  that.     'T  is  an  ill  cure 
For  life's  worst  ills,  to  have  no  time  to  feel  them. 
Where  sorrow's  held  intrusive  and  turned  out, 
There  wisdom  will  not  enter,  nor  true  power, 
Nor  aught  that  dignifies  humanity. 

That  beginning, 

To  bring  a  cloud  upon  the  summer  day, 
or  this  famous  one, 

Nor  do  I  now  despond,  &c. 

or  the  fine  scene  between  Clara,  Van  Artevelde,  and  Father  John, 
where  she  describes  the  death  scene  at  Sesenheim's,  beginning, 

Much  hast  thou  merited,  my  sister  dear. 

The  second  part  must  be  taken  as  a  whole,  the  dark  cloud  wi 
dening  and  blackening  as  it  advances,  while  ghastly  flashes  of 
presage  come  more  and  more  frequent  as  the  daylight  diminishes. 
But  there  is  far  more  fervor  of  genius  than  in  the  First,  showing 
a  mind  less  possessing,  more  possessed  by,  the  subject,  and  finer 
touches  of  nature.  Van  Artevelde's  dignity  overpowers  us  more, 
as  he  himself  feels  it  less  ;  as  in  the  acceptance  of  Father  John's 
reproof. 

VAN   ARTEVELDE. 

Father  John ! 

Though  peradventure  fallen  in  your  esteem, 
I  humbly  ask  your  blessing,  as  a  man, 
That  having  passed  for  more  in  your  repute 
Than  he  could  justify,  should  be  content. 
Not  with  his  state,  but  with  the  judgment  true 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  117 

That  to  the  lowly  level  of  his  state 
Brings  down  his  reputation. 

FATHER   JOHN. 

Oh,  my  son ! 

High  as  you  stand,  I  will  not  strain  my  eyes 
To  see  how  higher  still  you  stood  before. 
God's  blessing  be  upon  you.     Fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 

ARTEVELDE. 

The  old  man  weeps. 

But  he  reverts  at  once  to  the  topic  of  his  thought, 
Should  England  play  me  false,  &c. 

as  he  always  does,  for  a  mind  so  great,  so  high,  that  it  cannot  fail 
to  look  over  and  around  any  one  object,  any  especial  emotion,  re 
turns  to  its  habitual  mood  with  an  ease  of  which  shallow  and  ex 
citable  natures  cannot  conceive.  Thus  his  reflection,  after  he  has 
wooed  Elena,  is  not  that  of  heartlessness,  but  of  a  deep  heart. 

How  little  flattering  is  a  woman's  love ! 
And  is  in  keeping  with 

I  know  my  course, 

And  be  it  armies,  cities,  people,  priests, 
That  quarrel  with  my  love,  wise  men  or  fools, 
Friends,  foes,  or  factions,  they  may  swear  their  oaths, 
And  make  their  murmur ;  rave,  and  fret,  and  fear, 
Suspect,  admonish ;  they  but  waste  their  rage, 
Their  wits,  their  words,  their  counsel ;  here  I  stand 
Upon  the  deep  foundations  of  my  faith, 
To  this  fair  outcast  plighted ;  and  the  storm 
That  princes  from  their  palaces  shakes  out, 
Though  it  should  turn  and  head  me,  should  not  strain 
The  seeming  silken  texture  of  this  tie. 

And  not  less  with 

Pain  and  grief 
Are  transitory  things  no  less  than  joy ; 


118  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

And  though  they  leave  us  not  the  men  we  were, 
Yet  they  do  leave  us. 

With  the  admirable  passages  that  follow. 

The  delicate  touches,  with  which  Elena  is  made  to  depict  her 
own  character,  move  us  more  than  Artevelde's  most  beautiful  de 
scription  of  Adriana. 

I  have  been  much  unfortunate,  my  lord, 
I  would  not  love  again. 

Shakspeare  could  not  mend  the  collocation  of  those  words. 

When  he  is  absent  I  am  full  of  thought, 

And  fruitful  in  expression  inwardly, 

And  fresh,  and  free,  and  cordial,  is  the  flow 

Of  my  ideal  and  unheard  discourse, 

Calling  him  in  my  heart  endearing  names, 

Familiarly  fearless.     But  alas ! 

No  sooner  is  he  present  than  my  thoughts 

Are  breathless  and  bewitched,  and  stunted  so 

In  force  and  freedom,  that  I  ask  myself 

Whether  I  think  at  all,  or  feel,  or  live, 

So  senseless  am  I. 

Would  that  I  were  merry  ! 
Mirth  have  I  valued  not  before ;  but  now 
What  would  I  give  to  be  the  laughing  front 
Of  gay  imaginations  ever  bright, 
And  sparkling  fantasies !     Oh,  all  I  have, 
Which  is  not  nothing,  though  I  prize  it  not ; 
My  understanding  soul,  my  brooding  sense, 
My  passionate  fancy,  and  the  gift  of  gifts 
Dearest  to  waman,  which  deflowering  Time, 
Slow  ravisher,  from  clenchedest  fingers  wrings, 
My  corporal  beauty  would  I  barter  now 
For  such  an  antic  and  exulting  spirit 
As  lives  in  lively  women. 


Your  grave,  and  wise, 
And  melancholy  men,  if  they  have  souls, 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  119 

As  commonly  they  have,  susceptible 

Of  all  impressions,  lavish  most  their  love 

Upon  the  blithe  and  sportive,  and  on  such 

As  yield  their  want,  and  chase  their  sad  excess, 

With  jocund  salutations,  nimble  talk, 

And  buoyant  bearing. 

All  herself  is  in  the  line, 

Which  is  not  nothing,  though  I  prize  it  not. 
And  in  her  song, 

Down  lay  in  a  nook  my  lady's  brach. 

This  song  I  have  heard  quoted,  and  applied  in  such  a  way  as 
to  show  that  the  profound  meaning,  so  simply  expressed,  has  some 
times  been  understood. 

See  with  what  a  strain  of  reflection  Van  Artevelde  greets  the 
news  that  makes  sure  his  overthrow. 

It  is  strange,  yet  true, 

That  doubtful  knowledge  travels  with  a  speed 
Miraculous,  which  certain  cannot  match ; 
I  know  not  why,  when  this  or  that  has  chanced, 
The  smoke  should  come  before  the  flash ;  yet 't  is  so. 

The  creative  power  of  a  soul  of  genius,  is  shown  by  bringing 
out  the  poetic  sweetness  of  Van  Artevelde,  more  and  more,  as  the 
scene  assumes  a  gloomier  hue.  The  melancholy  music  of  his 
speech  penetrates  the  heart  more  and  more  up  to  the  close. 

The  gibbous  moon  was  in  a  wan  decline, 
And  all  was  silent  as  a  sick  man's  chamber, 
Mixing  its  small  beginnings  with  the  dregs 
Of  the  pale  moonshine,  and  a  few  faint  stars, 
The  cold  uncomfortable  daylight  dawned  ; 
And  the  white  tents,  topping  a  low-ground  fog, 
Showed  like  a  fleet  becalmed. 

At  the  close  of  the  vision  : 

And  midmost  in  the  eddy  and  the  whirl, 

My  own  face  saw  I,  which  was  pale  and  calm 

As  death  could  make  it,— th«n  the  vision  passed, 


120  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

And  I  perceived  the  river  and  the  bridge, 

The  mottled  sky,  and  horizontal  moon, 

The  distant  camp  and  all  things  as  they  were. 

****** 
Elena,  think  not  that  I  stand  in  need 
Of  false  encouragement;  I  have  my  strength, 
Which,  though  it  lie  not  in  the  sanguine  mood, 
Will  answer  my  occasions.     To  yourself, 
Though  to  none  other,  I  at  times  present 
The  gloomiest  thoughts  that  gloomy  truths  inspire, 
Because  I  love  you.     But  I  need  no  prop ! 
Nor  could  I  find  it  in  a  tinsel  show 
Of  prosperous  surmise.     Before  the  world 
I  wear  a  cheerful  aspect,  not  so  false 
As  for  your  lover's  solace  you  put  on ; 
Nor  in  my  closet  does  the  oil  run  low, 
Or  the  light  flicker. 

ELENA. 

Lo,  now !  you  are  angry 
Because  I  try  to  cheer  you. 

VAN   ARTEVELDE. 

No,  my  love, 

Not  angry ;  that  I  never  was  with  you ; 
But  as  I  deal  not  falsely  with  my  own, 
So  would  I  wish  the  heart  of  her  I  love, 
To  be  both  true  and  brave ;  nor  self-beguiled, 
Nor  putting  on  disguises  for  my  sake, 
As  though  I  faltered.     I  have  anxious  hours ; 
As  who  in  like  extremities  has  not  1 
But  I  have  something  stable  here  within, 
Which  bears  their  weight. 

In  the  last  scenes  : 

CBCILE, 

She  will  be  better  soon,  my  lord. 

YAN   ARTEVELDE. 

Say  worse ; 

'T  is  better  for  her  to  be  thus  bereft. 
One  other  kiss  on  that  bewitching  brow, 


THE   MODERN   DRAMA.  121 

Pale  hemisphere  of  charms.     Unhappy  girl ! 

The  curse  of  beauty  was  upon  thy  birth, 

Nor  love  bestowed  a  blessing.     Fare  thee  well! 

How  clear  his  voice  sounds  at  the  very  last. 

The  rumor  ran  that  I  was  hurt  to  death, 

And  then  they  staggered.     Lo !  we're  flying  all ! 

Mount,  mount,  old  man ;  at  least  let  one  be  saved ! 

Roosdyk!  Vauclaire  !  the  gallant  and  the  kind ! 

Who  shall  inscribe  your  merits  on  your  tombs ! 

May  mine  tell  nothing  to  the  world  but  this: 

That  never  did  that  prince  or  leader  live, 

Who  had  more  loyal  or  more  loving  friends! 

Let  it  be  written  that  fidelity 

Could  go  no  farther.     Mount,  old  friend,  and  fly ! 

VAN  RYK. 

With  you,  my  lord,  not  else.     A  fear-struck  throng, 
Comes  rushing  from  Mount  Dorre.     Sir,  cross  the  bridge. 

ARTEVELDE. 

The  bridge  !  my  soul  abhors — but  cross  it  thou ; 
And  take  this  token  to  my  love,  Van  Ryk ; 
Fly,  for  my  sake  in  hers,  and  take  her  hence ! 
It  is  my  last  command.     See  her  conveyed 
To  Ghent  by  Olsen,  or  what  safer  road 
Thy  prudence  shall  descry.     This  do,  Van  Ryk. 
Lo !  now  they  pour  upon  us  like  a  flood  ! — 
Thou  that  didst  never  disobey  me  yet — 
This  last  good  office  render  me.     Begone ! 
Fly  whilst  the  way  is  free. 

What  commanding  sweetness  in  the  utterance  of  the  name, 
Van  Ryk,  and  what  a  weight  of  tragedy  in  the  broken  sentence 
which  speaks  of  the  fatal  bridge.  These  are  the  things  that  act 
ors  rarely  give  us,  the  very  passages  to  which  it  would  be  their 
vocation  to  do  justice  ;  saying  out  those  tones  we  divine  from  the 
order  of  the  words. 

Yet  Talma's  Pas  encore  set  itself  to  music  in  the  mind  of  the 

7 


122  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

hearer  ;  and  Zara,  you  weep,  was  so  spoken  as  to  melt  the  whole 

French  nation  into  that  one  moment. 
Elena's  sob  of  anguish  : 

Arouse  yourself,  sweet  lady :  fly  with  me, 
I  pray  you  hear ;  it  was  his  last  command 
That  I  should  take  you  hence  to  Ghent  by  Olsen. 

ELENA. 

I  cannot  go  on  foot. 

VAN   RYK. 

No,  lady,  no, 

You  shall  not  need ;  horses  are  close  at  hand, 
Let  me  but  take  you  hence.     I  pray  you  come. 

ELENA. 

Take  7am  then  too. 

VAN   RYK. 

The  enemy  is  near, 
In  hot  pursuit ;  we  cannot  take  the  body. 

ELENA. 

The  body  !  Oh  I 

In  this  place  Miss  Kemble  alone  would  have  had  force  of  pas 
sion  to  represent  her,  who 

Flung  that  long  funereal  note 
Into  the  upper  sky  1 

Though  her  acting  was  not  refined  enough  by  intellect  and  cul 
ture  for  the  more  delicate  lineaments  of  the  character.  She  also 
would  have  given  its  expression  to  the  unintelligent,  broken-hearted, 

I  cannot  go  on  foot, 

The  body — yes,  that  temple  could  be  so  deserted  by  its  god, 
that  men  could  call  it  so !  That  form  so  instinct  with  rich  gifts, 
that  baseness  and  sloth  seemed  mere  names  in  its  atmosphere, 
could  He  on  the  earth  as  unable  to  vindicate  its  rights,  as  any 
other  clod.  The  exclamation  of  Elena,  better  bespoke  the  trag 
edy  of  this  fact,  than  any  eulogium  of  a  common  observer,  though 
that  of  Burgundy  is  fitly  worded. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  123 

Dire  rebel  though  he  was, 
Yet  with  a  noble  nature  and  great  gifts 
Was  he  endowed  :  courage,  discretion,  wit, 
An  equal  temper  and  an  ample  soul, 
Rock-bound  and  fortified  against  assaults 
Of  transitory  passion,  but  below 
Built  on  a  surging  subterraneous  fire, 
That  stirred  and  lifted  him  to  high  attempts, 
So  prompt  and  capable,  and  yet  so  calm ; 
He  nothing  lacked  in  sovereignty  but  the  right, 
Nothing  in  soldiership  except  good  fortune. 

That  was  the  grandeur  of  the  character,  that  its  calmness  had 
nothing  to  do  with  slowness  of  blood,  but  was  "  built  on  a  surging 
subterranean  fire." 

Its  magnanimity  is  shown  with  a  fine  simplicity.  To  blame 
one's  self  is  easy,  to  condemn  one's  own  changes  and  declensions 
of  character  and  life  painful,  but  inevitable  to  a  deep  mind.  But 
to  bear  well  the  blame  of  a  lesser  nature,  unequal  to  seeing  what 
the  fault  grows  from,  is  not  easy ;  to  take  blame  as  Van  Arte- 
velde  does,  so  quietly,  indifferent  from  whence  truth  comes,  so  it 
be  truth,  is  a  trait  seen  in  the  greatest  only. 

ELENA. 

Too  anxious,  Artevelde, 
And  too  impatient  are  you  grown  of  late ; 
You  used  to  be  so  calm  and  even-minded, 
That  nothing  ruffled  you. 

ARTEVELDE. 

I  stand  reproved ; 

'T  is  time  and  circumstance  that  tries  us  all ; 
And  they  that  temperately  take  their  start, 
And  keep  their  souls  indifferently  sedate, 
Through  much  of  good  and  evil  at  the  last, 
May  find  the  weakness  of  their  hearts  thus  tried. 
My  cause  appears  more  precious  than  it  did 
In  its  triumphant  days. 

I  have  ventured  to  be  the  more  lavish  of  extracts  that,  although 


124  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

the  publication  of  Philip  Van  Artevelde  at  once  placed  Mr.  Taylor 
in  the  second  rank  of  English  poets,  a  high  meed  of  glory,  when 
we  remember  who  compose  the  first,  we  seldom  now  hear  the 
poem  mentioned,  or  a  line  quoted  from  it,  though  it  is  a  work 
which  might,  from  all  considerations,  well  make  a  part  of  habit 
ual  reading,  and  habitual  thought.  Mr.  Taylor  has  since  pub 
lished  another  dramatic  poem,  "  Edwin  the  Fair,"  whose  excel 
lencies,  though  considerable,  are  not  of  the  same  commanding 
character  with  those  of  its  predecessor.  He  was  less  fortunate  in 
his  subject.  There  is  no  great  and  noble  figure  in  the  foreground 
on  which  to  concentrate  the  interest,  from  which  to  distribute  the 
lights.  Neither  is  the  spirit  of  an  era  seized  with  the  same 
power.  The  figures  are  modern  English  under  Saxon  names, 
and  affect  us  like  a  Boston  face,  tricked  out  in  the  appurtenances 
of  Goethe's  Faust.  Such  a  character  as  Dunstan's  should  be  sub 
ordinated  in  a  drama ;  its  interest  is  that  of  intellectual  analysis, 
mere  feelings  it  revolts.  The  main  character  of  the  piece  should 
attract  the  feelings,  and  we  should  be  led  to  analysis,  to  under 
stand,  not  to  excuse  its  life. 

There  are,  however,  fine  passages,  as  profound,  refined,  and 
expressed  with  the  same  unstrained  force  and  purity,  as  those  in 
Philip  Van  Artevelde. 

Athelwold,  another  of  the  tragedies  at  the  head  of  this  notice, 
takes  up  some  of  the  same  characters  a  few  years  later.  With 
out  poetic  depth,  or  boldness  of  conception,  it  yet  boasts  many 
beauties  from  the  free  talent,  and  noble  feelings  of  the  author. 
Athelwold  is  the  best  sketch  in  it,  and  the  chief  interest  consists 
in  his  obstinate  rejection  of  Elfrida,  whose  tardy  penitence  could 
no  way  cancel  the  wrong,  her  baseness  of  nature  did  his  faith. 
This  is  worked  up  with  the  more  art,  that  there  is  justice  in  her 
plea,  but  love,  shocked  from  its  infinity,  could  not  stop  short  of 
despair.  Here  deep  feeling  rises  to  poetry. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  125 

Dunstan  and  Edgar  are  well  drawn  sketches,  but  show  not  the 
subtle  touches  of  a  life-like  treatment. 

This,  we  should  think,  as  well  as  the  Patrician's  Daughter, 
might  be  a  good  acting  play. 

We  come  now  to  the  work  which  affords  the  most  interesting 
theme  for  this  notice,  from  its  novelty,  its  merits,  and  its  subject, 
which  is  taken  from  that  portion  of  English  history  with  which 
we  are  most  closely  bound,  the  time  preceding  the  Common 
wealth. 

Its  author,  Mr.  Sterling,  has  many  admirers  among  us,  drawn 
to  him  by  his  productions,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  which  for  a 
time  enriched  the  pages  of  Blackwood.  Some  of  these  have  been 
collected  into  a  small  volume,  which  has  been  republished  in  this 
country. 

These  smaller  pieces  are  of  very  unequal  merit ;  but  the  best 
among  them  are  distinguished  by  vigor  of  conception  and  touch, 
by  manliness  and  modesty  of  feeling,  by  a  depth  of  experience, 
rare  in  these  days  of  babbling  criticism  and  speculation.  His 
verse  does  not  flow  or  soar  with  the  highest  lyrical  inspiration, 
neither  does  he  enrich  us  by  a  large  stock  of  original  images,  but 
for  grasp  and  picturesque  presentation  of  his  subject,  for  frequent 
bold  and  forceful  passages,  and  the  constantly  fresh  breath  of  char 
acter,  we  know  few  that  could  be  named  with  him.  The  Sexton's 
Daughter  is  the  longest  and  best  known,  but  not  the  best  of  the 
minor  poems.  It  has,  however,  in  a  high  degree,  the  merits  we 
have  mentioned.  The  yew  tree  makes  a  fine  centre  to  the  whole 
picture.  The  tale  is  told  in  too  many  words,  the  homely  verse 
becomes  garrulous,  but  the  strong,  pure  feeling  of  natural  rela 
tions  endears  them  all. 

His  Aphrodite  is  fitly  painted,  and  we  should  have  dreamed  it 
so  from  all  his  verse. 

***** 
The  high  immortal  queen  from  heaven, 
The  calm  Olympian  face ; 


126         PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Eyes  pure  from  human  tear  or  smile, 

Yet  ruling  all  on  earth, 
And  limbs  whose  garb  of  golden  air 
Was  Dawn's  primeval  birth. 

With  tones  like  music  of  a  lyre, 

Continuous,  piercing,  low, 
The  sovran  lips  began  to  speak, 

Spoke  on  in  liquid  flow, 
It  seemed  the  distant  ocean's  voice, 

Brought  near  and  shaped  to  speech, 
But  breathing  with  a  sense  beyond 

What  words  of  man  may  reach. 

Weak  child  !     Not  I  the  puny  power 

Thy  wish  would  have  me  be, 
A  roseleaf  floating  with  the  wind 

Upon  a  summer  sea. 

If  such  thou  need'st,  go  range  the  fields, 
And  hunt  the  gilded  fly, 
And  when  it  mounts  above  thy  head, 
Then  lay  thee  down  and  die. 

The  spells  which  rule  in  earth  and  stars, 

Each  mightiest  thought  that  lives, 
Are  stronger  than  the  kiss  a  child 

In  sudden  fancy  gives. 
They  cannot  change,  or  fail,  or  fade, 

Nor  deign  o'er  aught  to  sway, 
Too  weak  to  suffer  and  to  strive, 

And  tired  while  still  't  is  day. 

And  thou  with  better  wisdom  learn 

The  ancient  lore  to  scan, 
Which  tells  that  first  in  Ocean's  breast 

Thy  rule  o'er  all  began ; 
And  know  that  not  in  breathless  noon 

Upon  the  glassy  main, 
The  power  was  born  that  taught  the  world 

To  hail  her  endless  reign. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  127 

The  winds  were  loud,  the  waves  were  high, 

In  drear  eclipse  the  sun 
Was  crouched  within  the  caves  of  heaven, 

And  light  had  scarce  begun ; 
The  Earth's  green  front  lay  drowned  below, 

And  Death  and  Chaos  fought 
O'er  all  the  tumult  vast  of  things 

Not  yet  to  severance  brought. 

JT  was  then  that  spoke  the  fateful  voice, 

And  'mid  the  huge  uproar, 
Above  the  dark  I  sprang  to  life, 

A  good  unhoped  before. 
My  tresses  waved  along  the  sky, 

And  stars  leapt  out  around, 
And  earth  beneath  my  feet  arose, 

And  hid  the  pale  profound. 

A  lamp  amid  the  night,  a  feast 

That  ends  the  strife  of  war, 
To  wearied  mariners  a  port, 

To  fainting  limbs  a  car, 
To  exiled  men  the  friendly  roof, 

To  mourning  hearts  the  lay, 
To  him  who  long  has  roamed  by  night 

The  sudden  dawn  of  day. 

All  these  arc  mine,  and  mine  the  bliss 

That  visits  breasts  in  woe, 
And  fills  with  wine  the  cup  that  once 

With  tears  was  made  to  flow. 
Nor  question  thou  the  help  that  comes 

From  Aphrodite's  hand; 
For  madness  dogs  the  bard  who  doubts 

Whate'er  the  gods  command. 

Alfred  the  Harper  has  the  same  strong  picture  and  noble  beat 
of  wing.  One  line  we  have  heard  so  repeated  by  a  voice,  that 
could  give  it  its  full  meaning,  that  we  should  be  very  grateful  to 
the  poet  for  that  alone. 

Still  lives  the  song  though  Regnar  dies. 


128  PAPERS  ON   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Dsedalus  we  must  quote. 

DAEDALUS. 
1. 

Wail  for  Dsedalus  all  that  is  fairest ! 

All  that  is  tuneful  in  air  or  wave  ! 
Shapes,  whose  beauty  is  truest  and  rarest, 

Haunt  with  your  lamps  and  spells  his  grave! 

2. 
Statues,  bend  your  heads  in  sorrow, 

Ye  that  glance  'mid  ruins  old, 
That  know  not  a  past,  nor  expect  a  morrow, 

On  many  a  moonlight  Grecian  wold ! 

3. 
By  sculptured  cave  and  speaking  river, 

Thee,  Dsedalus,  oft  the  Nymphs  recall ; 
The  leaves  with  a  sound  of  winter  quiver, 

Murmur  thy  name,  and  withering  fall. 

4. 

Yet  are  thy  visions  in  soul  the  grandest 
Of  all  that  crowd  on  the  tear-dimmed  eye, 

Though,  Dsedalus,  thou  no  more  commandest 
New  stars  to  that  ever-widening  sky. 

5. 
Ever  thy  phantoms  arise  before  us, 

Our  loftier  brothers,  but  one  in  blood ; 
By  bed  and  table  they  lord  it  o'er  us, 

With  looks  of  beauty  and  words  of  Good. 

6. 

Calmly  they  show  us  mankind  victorious 
O'er  all  that's  aimless,  blind,  and  base; 

Their  presence  has  made  our  nature  glorious, 
Unveiling  our  night's  illumined  face. 

7. 
Thy  toil  has  won  them  a  godlike  quiet, 

Thou  hast  wrought  their  path  to  a  lovely  sphere ; 
Their  eyes  to  peace  rebuke  our  riot, 

And  shape  us  a  home  of  refuge  here. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  129 

8. 
For  Daedalus  breathed  in  them  his  spirit; 

In  them  their  sire  his  beauty  sees  ; 
We  too,  a  younger  brood,  inherit 

The  gifts  and  blessing  bestowed  on  these. 

9. 
But  ah  !  their  wise  and  graceful  seeming 

Recalls  the  more  that  the  sage  is  gone ; 
Weeping  we  wake  from  deceitful  dreaming, 

And  find  our  voiceless  chamber  lone. 

10. 
Daedalus,  thou  from  the  twilight  fleest, 

Which  thou  with  visions  hast  made  so  bright ; 
And  when  no  more  those  shapes  thou  seest, 

Wanting  thine  eye  they  lose  their  light. 

11. 
E'en  in  the  noblest  of  Man's  creations, 

Those  fresh  worlds  round  this  old  of  ours, 
When  the  seer  is  gone,  the  orphaned  nations 

See  but  the  tombs  of  perished  powers. 

12. 
Wail  for  Daedalus,  Earth  and  Ocean ! 

Stars  and  Sun,  lament  for  him  ! 
Ages,  quake  in  strange  commotion ! 

All  ye  realms  of  life  be  dim ! 
13. 
Wail  for  Daedalus,  awful  voices, 

From  earth's  deep  centre  Mankind  appall ! 
Seldom  ye  sound,  and  then  Death  rejoices, 

For  he  knows  that  then  the  mightiest  fall. 

Also  the  following,  whose  measure  seems  borrowed  from  Goethe, 
and  is  worthy  of  its  source.     We  insert  a  part  it. 

THE  WOODED  MOUNTAINS. 
Woodland  mountains  in  your  leafy  walks, 
Shadows  of  the  Past  and  Future  blend ; 
'Mid  your  verdant  windings  flits  or  stalks 
Many  a  loved  and  disembodied  friend. 
7* 


130  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

With  your  oaks  and  pine-trees,  ancient  brood, 

Spirits  rise  above  the  wizard  soil, 
And  with  these  I  rove  amid  the  wood ; 

Man  may  dream  on  earth  no  less  than  toil. 

Shapes  that  seem  my  kindred  meet  the  ken ; 

Gods  and  heroes  glimmer  through  the  shade ; 
Ages  long  gone  by  from  haunts  of  men 

Meet  me  here  in  rocky  dell  and  glade. 

There  the  Muses,  touched  with  gleams  of  light, 
Warble  yet  from  yonder  hill  of  trees, 

And  upon  the  huge  and  mist-clad  height 
Fancy  sage  a  clear  Olympus  sees. 

'Mid  yon  utmost  peaks  the  elder  powers 
Still  unshaken  hold  their  fixed  abode, 

Fates  primeval  throned  in  airy  towers, 

That  with  morning  sunshine  never  glowed. 

Deep  below,  amid  a  hell  of  rocks, 
Lies  the  Cyclops,  and  the  Dragon  coils, 

Heaving  with  the  torrent's  weary  shocks, 
That  round  the  untrodden  region  boils. 

But  more  near  to  where  our  thought  may  climb, 

In  a  mossy,  leaf-clad,  Druid  ring, 
Three  gray  shapes,  prophetic  Lords  of  Time, 

Homer,  Dante,  Shakspeare,  sit  and  sing. 

Each  in  his  turn  his  descant  frames  aloud, 
Mingling  new  and  old  in  ceaseless  birth, 

While  the  Destinies  hear  amid  their  cloud, 
And  accordant  mould  the  flux  of  earth. 

Oh !  ye  trees  that  wave  and  glisten  round, 
Oh !  ye  waters  gurgling  down  the  dell, 

Pulses  throb  in  every  sight  and  sound, 
Living  Nature's  more  than  magic  spell. 

Soon  amid  the  vista  still  and  dim, 

Knights,  whom  youth's  high  heart  forgetteth  not, 
Each  with  scars  and  shadowy  helmet  grim, 

Amadis,  Orlando,  Launcelot. 


THE  MODERN   DRAMA.  131 

Stern  they  pass  along  the  twilight  green, 

While  within  the  tangled  wood's  recess 
Some  lorn  damsel  sits,  lamenting  keen, 

With  a  voice  of  tuneful  amorousness. 

Clad  in  purple  weed,  with  pearly  crown, 

And  with  golden  hairs  that  waving  play, 
Fairest  earthly  sight  for  King  and  Clown, 

Oriana  or  Angelica. 

But  in  sadder  nooks  of  deeper  shade, 

Forms  more  subtle  lurk  from  human  eye, 
Each  cold  Nymph,  the  rock  or  fountain's  maid, 

Crowned  with  leaves  that  sunbeams  never  dry. 

And  while  on  and  on  I  wander,  still 

Passed  the  plashing  streamlet's  glance  and  foam, 

Hearing  oft  the  wild-bird  pipe  at  will, 
Still  new  openings  lure  me  still  to  roam. 

In  this  hollow  smooth  by  May-tree  walled, 

White  and  breathing  now  with  fragrant  flower, 
Lo!  the  fairy  tribes  to  revel  called, 

Start  in  view  as  fades  the  evening  hour. 

Decked  in  rainbow  roof  of  gossamer, 

And  with  many  a  sparkling  jewel  bright, 
Rose-leaf  faces,  dew-drop  eyes  are  there, 

Each  with  gesture  fine  of  gentle  sprite. 

Gay  they  woo,  and  dance,  and  feast,  and  sing, 

Elfin  chants  and  laughter  fill  the  dell, 
As  if  every  leaf  around  should  ring 

With  its  own  aerial  emerald  bell. 

But  for  man  'tis  ever  sad  to  see 

Joys  like  his  that  he  must  not  partake, 
'Mid  a  separate  world,  a  people's  glee, 

In  whose  hearts  his  heart  no  joy  could  wake. 

Fare  ye  well,  ye  tiny  race  of  elves ; 

May  the  moonbeam  ne'er  behold  your  tomb ; 
Ye  are  happiest  childhood's  other  selves, 

Bright  to  you  be  always  evening's  gloom. 


132  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

And  thou,  mountain-realm  of  ancient  wood, 
Where  my  feet  and  thoughts  have  strayed  so  long, 

Now  thy  old  gigantic  brotherhood 
With  a  ghostlier  vastness  round  me  throng. 

Mound,  and  cliff,  and  crag,  that  none  may  scale 
With  your  serried  trunks  and  wrestling  boughs, 

Like  one  living  presence  ye  prevail, 
And  o'erhang  me  with  Titanian  brows. 

In  your  Being's  mighty  depth  of  Power, 

Mine  is  lost  and  melted  all  away. 
In  your  forms  involved  I  seem  to  tower, 

And  with  you  am  spread  in  twilight  grey. 

In  this  knotted  stem  whereon  I  lean, 

And  the  dome  above  of  countless  leaves, 
Twists  and  swells,  and  frowns  a  life  unseen, 

That  my  life  with  it  resistless  weaves. 

Yet,  O  nature,  less  is  all  of  thine 
Than  thy  borrowings  from  our  human  breast ; 

Thou,  O  God,  hast  made  thy  child  divine, 
And  for  him  this  world  thou  hallowest. 

The  Rose  and  the  Gauntlet  we  much  admire  as  a  ballad,  and 
the  tale  is  told  in  fewest  words,  and  by  a  single  picture  ;  but  we 
have  not  room  for  it  here.  In  Lady  Jane  Grey,  though  this 
again  is  too  garrulous,  the  picture  of  the  princess  at  the  begin 
ning  is  fine,  as  she  sits  in  the  antique  casement  of  the  rich  old 
room. 

The  lights  through  the  painted  glass 

Fall  with  fondest  brightness  o'er  the  form 

Of  her  who  sits,  the  chamber's  lovely  dame, 
And  her  pale  forehead  in  the  light  looks  warm, 

And  all  these  colors  round  her  whiteness  flame. 

Young  is  she,  scarcely  passed  from  childhood's  years, 

With  grave,  soft  face,  where  thoughts  and  smiles  may  play, 

And  unalarmed  by  guilty  aims  or  fears, 
Serene  as  meadow  flowers  may  meet  the  day. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  133 

No  guilty  pang  she  knows,  though  many  a  dread 
Hangs  threatening  o'er  her  in  the  conscious  air, 

And  'mid  the  beams  from  that  bright  casement  shut, 
A  twinkling  crown  foreshows  a  near  despair. 

The  quaint  conciseness  of  this  last  line  pleases  me. 

He  always  speaks  in  marble  words  of  Greec&.  But  I  must 
make  no  more  quotations. 

Some  part  of  his  poem  on  Shakspeare  is  no  unfit  prelude  to  a 
few  remarks  on  his  own  late  work.  With  such  a  sense  of  great 
ness  none  could  wholly  fail. 

With  meaning  won  from  him  for  ever  glows 

Each  air  that  England  feels,  and  star  it  knows ; 

And  gleams  from  spheres  he  first  conjoined  to  earth 

Are  blent  with  rays  of  each  new  morning's  birth, 

Amid  the  sights  and  tales  of  common  things, 

Leaf,  flower,  and  bird,  and  wars,  and  deaths  of  kings, 

Of  shore,  and  sea,  and  nature's  daily  round 

Of  life  that  tills,  and  tombs  that  load  the  ground, 

His  visions  mingle,  swell,  command,  pass  by, 

And  haunt  with  living  presence  heart  and  eye, 

And  tones  from  him,  by  other  bosoms  caught, 

Awaken  flush  and  stir  of  mounting  thought, 

And  the  long  sigh,  and  deep,  impassioned  thrill, 

Rouse  custom's  trance,  and  spur  the  faltering  will. 

Above  the  goodly  land,  more  his  than  ours, 

He  sits  supreme  enthroned  in  skyey  towers. 

And  sees  the  heroic  blood  of  his  creation 

Teach  larger  life  to  his  ennobled  nation. 

O !  shaping  brain  !     O !  flashing  fancy's  hues ! 

O !  boundless  heart  kept  fresh  by  pity's  dews ! 

O  !  wit  humane  and  blythe !     O  !  sense  sublime 

For  each  dim  oracle  of  mantled  Time ! 

Transcendant  form  of  man !  in  whom  we  read, 

Mankind's  whole  tale  of  Impulse,  Thought,  and  Deed. 

Such  is  his  ideal  of  the  great  dramatic  poet.     It  would  not  be 
fair  to  measure  him,  or  any  man,  by  his  own  ideal ;  that  affords  a 
of  spiritual  and  intellectual  progress,  with  which  the  ex- 


134  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

ecutive  powers  may  not  correspond.  A  clear  eye  may  be  asso 
ciated  with  a  feeble  hand,  or  the  reverse.  The  mode  of  measure 
ment  proposed  by  the  great  thinker  of  our  time  is  not  inapplicable. 
First,  show  me  what  aim  a  man  proposes  to  himself;  next,  with 
what  degree  of  earnestness  he  strives  to  attain  it.  In  both  regards 
we  can  look  at  Mr.  Sterling's  work  with  pleasure  and  admiration. 
He  exhibits  to  us  a  great  crisis,  with  noble  figures  to  represent  its 
moving  springs.  His  work  is  not  merely  the  plea  for  a  principle, 
or  the  exposition  of  a  thought,  but  an  exhibition  of  both  at  work 
in  life.  He  opens  the  instrument  and  lets  us  see  the  machinery 
without  stopping  the  music.  The  progress  of  interest  in  the  piece 
is  imperative,  the  principal  character  well  brought  out,  the  style 
clear  and  energetic,  the  tone  throughout  is  of  a  manly  dignity, 
worthy  great  times.  Yet  its  merit  is  of  a  dramatic  sketch,  rather 
than  a  drama.  The  forms  want  the  roundness,  the  fulness  of  life, 
the  thousand  charms  of  spontaneous  expression.  In  this  last  partic 
ular  Sterling  is  as  far  inferior  to  Taylor,  as  Taylor  to  Shakspeare. 
His  characters,  like  Miss  Baillie's  or  Talfourd's,  narrate  rather 
than  express  their  life.  Not  elaborately,  not  pedantically,  but  yet 
the  effect  is  that,  while  they  speak  we  look  on  them  as  past,  and 
Sterling's  view  of  them  interests  us  more  than  themselves.  In 
his  view  of  relations  again  we  must  note  his  inferiority  to  Taylor, 
who  in  this  respect  is  the  only  contemporary  dramatist  on  whom 
we  can  look  with  complacency.  Taylor's  characters  really  meet, 
really  bear  upon  one  another.  In  contempt  and  hatred,  or  es 
teem,  reverence,  and  melting  tenderness,  they  challenge,  bend, 
and  transfuse  one  another. 

Strafford  never  alters,  never  is  kindled  by  or  kindles  the  life  of 
any  other  being,  never  breathes  the  breath  of  the  moment.  Be 
fore  us,  throughout  the  play,  is  the  view  of  his  greatness  taken  by 
the  mind  of  the  author  ;  we  are  not  really  made  to  feel  it  by  those 
around  him ;  it  is  echoed  from  their  lips,  not  from  their  lives. 
Lady  Carlisle  is  the  only  personage,  except  Strafford,  that  is 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  135 

brought  out  into  much  relief.  Everard  isMfl^  an  accessory,  and 
the  king,  queen,  and  parliamentary  leaderspftjiaVn  with  a  few 
strokes  to  give  them  their  historical  position.  Scarcely  more  can 
be  said  of  Hollis ;  some  individual  action  is  assigned  him,  but  not 
so  as  to  individualize  his  character.  The  idea  of  the  relation  at 
this  ominous  period  between  Strafford  and  Lady  Carlisle  is  noble. 
In  these  stern  times  he  has  put  behind  him  the  flowers  of  tender 
ness,  and  the  toys  of  passion. 

Lady,  believe  me,  that  I  loved  you  truly, 
Still  think  of  you  with  wonder  and  delight, 
Own  you  the  liveliest,  noblest  heart  of  woman 
This  age,  or  any,  knows ;  but  for  love  ditties 
And  amorous  toys,  and  kisses  ocean-deep, 
Strafford  and  this  old  Earth  are  all  too  sad. 

But  when  the  lady  had  a  soul  to  understand  the  declaration, 
and  show  herself  worthy  of  his  friendship,  there  is  a  hardness  in 
his  action  towards  her,  a  want  of  softness  and  grace,  how  different 
from  Van  Artevelde's : 

My  Adriana,  victim  that  thou  art. 

The  nice  point  indeed,  of  giving  the  hero  manly  firmness,  and 
an  even  stern  self-sufficiency,  without  robbing  him  of  the  beauty 
of  gentle  love,  was  touched  with  rare  success  in  Van  Artevelde. 
Common  men  may  not  be  able  to  show  firmness  and  persistency, 
without  a  certain  hardness  and  glassiness  of  expression  ;  but  we 
expect  of  the  hero,  that  he  should  combine  the  softness  with  the 
constancy  of  Hector. 

This  failure  is  the  greater  here,  that  we  need  a  private  tie  to 
Strafford  to  give  his  fall  the  deepest  tragic  interest. 

Lady  Carlisle  is  painted  with  some  skill  and  spirit.  The  name 
given  her  by  St.  John  of  "the  handsome  vixen,"  and  the  willing 
ness  shown  by  her  little  page  to  die,  rather  than  see  her  after  fail 
ing  to  deliver  her  letter,  joined  with  her  own  appearance,  mark 


136  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

her  very  well.     The  following  is  a  prose  sketch  of  her  as  seen  in 
common  life. 

SIR  TOBY  MATTHEW'S  PORTRAIT  OF  LUCY  PERCY,  COUNTESS  OF  CARLISLE. 

"  She  is  of  too  high  a  mind  and  dignity,  not  only  to  seek,  but  almost  to  wish 
the  friendship  of  any  creature :  they,  whom  she  is  pleased  to  choose,  are  such 
as  are  of  the  most  eminent  condition,  both  for  power  and  employment ;  not 
with  any  design  towards  her  own  particular,  either  of  advantage  or  curiosity, 
but  her  nature  values  fortunate  persons  as  virtuous.  She  prefers  the  conversa 
tion  of  men  to  that  of  women ;  not  but  she  can  talk  on  the  fashions  with  her 
female  friends,  but  she  is  too  soon  sensible  that  she  can  set  them  as  she  wills ; 
that  pre-eminence  shortens  all  equality.  She  converses  with  those  who  are 
most  distinguished  for  their  conversational  powers. 

"  Of  love  freely  will  she  discourse,  listen  to  all  its  faults,  and  mark  all  its 
power.  She  cannot  herself  love  in  earnest,  but  she  will  play  with  love,  and  will 
take  a  deep  interest  for  persons  of  condition  and  celebrity." — See  Life  of  Pym ; 
in  Lardner  Cabinet  Cyclopaedia,  Vol.  xci.,  p.  213. 

The  noblest  trait,  given  her  in  the  play,  is  the  justice  she  is 
able  to  do  Charles,  after  his  treachery  has  consigned  Strafford  to 
the  Tower. 

LADY   CARLISLE. 

And  he  betrayed  you. 

STRAFFORD. 

He !  it  cannot  be, 

There's  not  a  minion  in  his  court  so  vile, 
Holland  nor  Jermyn,  would  deceive  a  trust 
Like  that  I  placed  in  him,  nor  would  belie 
So  seeming  heart  felt  words  as  those  he  spake. 

LADY   CARLISLE. 

He's  not  entirely  vile,  and  yet  he  did  it. 

This,  seen  in  unison  with  her  outpouring  of  contempt  upon  the 
king  when  present,  makes  out  a  character.  As  a  whole,  that 
given  her  by  the  poet  is  not  only  nobler  than  the  one  assigned  her 
in  history,  but  opposed  to  it  in  a  vital  point. 

The  play  closes  after  Strafford  has  set  forth  for  the  scaffold 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  137 

with  the  ejaculation  from  her  left  in  the  Tower,  where  she  has 
waited  on  his  last  moments, 

"Alone,  henceforth  forever!" 

While  history  makes  her  transfer  her  attachment  to  Pym,  who 
must  have  been,  in  her  eyes,  Strafford's  murderer,  on  the  score 
of  her  love  of  intellectual  power,  in  which  all  other  considerations 
were  merged.  This  is  a  character  so  odious,  and  in  a  woman,  so 
unnatural,  that  we  are  tempted  rather  to  suppose  it  was  hatred  of 
the  king  for  his  base  and  treacherous  conduct  towards  Strafford, 
that  induced  her  to  betray  to  Pym  the  counsels  of  the  court,  as 
the  best  means  of  revenge.  Such  a  version  of  her  motives  would 
not  be  inconsistent  with  the  character  assigned  her  in  the  play. 
It  would  be  making  her  the  agent  to  execute  her  own  curse,  so 
eloquently  spoken  after  she  finds  the  king  willing  to  save  himself 
by  the  sacrifice  of  Strafford's  life. 

KING    CHARLES. 

The  woman's  mad ;  her  passion  braves  the  skies ! 

LADY    CARLISLE. 

I  brave  them  not;  I  but  invoke  their  justice 
To  rain  hot  curses  on  a  tyrant's  head ; 
Henceforth  I  set  myself  apart  for  mischief, 
To  find  and  prompt  men  capable  of  hate, 
Until  some  dagger,  steeled  in  Strafford's  blood, 
Knocks  at  the  heart  of  Strafford's  murderer. 

KING   CHARLES. 

His  murderer !  O  God ! — no,  no, — not  that ! 

(Sinks  luck  ir.to  a  seat.) 

LADY    CARLISLE. 

And  here  I  call  on  all  the  powers  above  us 
To  aid  the  deep  damnation  of  my  curse, 
And  make  this  treason  to  the  noblest  man, 
That  moves  alive  within  our  English  seas, 
Fatal  to  him  and  all  his  race,  whose  baseness 
Destroys  a  worth  it  ne'er  could  understand. 
Stars  in  your  glory,  vital  air  and  sun, 


138  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

And  thou,  dark  earth,  our  cradle,  nurse,  and  grave, 

And  more  than  all,  free  truth  and  penal  justice, 

Conspire  with  all  your  dreadful  influence 

Against  his  blood,  whose  crime  ye  now  behold ! 

Make  him  a  byeword,  and  a  name  of  woe, 

A  conquered  warrior,  and  a  throneless  outcast, 

To  teach  all  kings  the  law  of  evil  power, 

Till  by  an  end  more  friendless  and  abhorred 

Than  his  great  victim's,  and  with  heavier  pain, 

Let  him  slink  off  to  a  detested  grave ! 

And  now  I  give  your  majesty  leave  to  go, 

And  may  you  carry  from  my  house  away, 

That  fixed  incurable  ulcer  of  the  heart, 

Which  I  have  helped  your  thoughts  to  fasten  there. 

If  these  burning  words  had  as  much  power  to  kindle  her  own 
heart,  as  they  must  that  of  the  hearer,  we  only  realize  our  antici 
pations,  when  we  find  her  sending  to  the  five  members  the  news 
of  the  intention  of  Charles  to  arrest  them,  thus  placing  him  in  a 
position  equally  ridiculous  and  miserable,  having  incurred  all  the 
odium  of  this  violent  transaction  to  no  purpose.  That  might  well 
be  a  proud  moment  of  gratified  vengeance  to  her,  when  he  stood 
amid  the  sullen  and  outraged  parliament,  baffled  like  a  schoolboy, 
loathed  as  a  thief,  exclaiming,  "  The  birds  are  flown,"  and  all 
owing  to  "  the  advices  of  the  honorable  Lady  Carlisle." 

The  play  opens  with  Straffbrd's  return  to  London.  He  is  made 
to  return  in  rather  a  different  temper  from  what  he  really  did,  not 
only  trusting  the  king,  but  in  his  own  greatness  fearless  of  the 
popular  hatred.  The  opening  scenes  are  very  good,  compact, 
well  wrought,  and  showing  at  the  very  beginning  the  probable 
fortunes  of  the  scene,  by  making  the  characters  the  agents  of 
their  own  destinies.  A  weight  of  tragedy  is  laid  upon  the  heart, 
and  at  the  same  time  we  are  inspired  with  deep  interest  as  to  how 
it  shall  be  acted  out. 

Strafford  appears  before  us  as  he  does  in  history,  a  grand  and 
melancholy  figure,  whose  dignity  lay  in  his  energy  of  will,  and 


THE   MODERN  DRAMA. 


large  scope  of  action,  not  in  his  perception  of  principles,  or  virtue 
in  carrying  them  out.  For  his  faith  in  the  need  of  absolute  sway 
to  control  the  herd,  does  not  merit  the  name  of  a  principle. 

In  my  thought,  the  promise  of  success 
Grows  to  the  self-same  stature  as  the  need, 
Which  is  gigantic.     There's  a  king  to  guide, 
Three  realms  to  save,  a  nation  to  control, 
And  by  subduing  to  make  blest  beyond 
Their  sottish  dreams  of  lawless  liberty. 
This  to  fulfil  Str afford  has  pledged  his  soul 
In  the  unfaltering  hands  of  destiny. 

Nor  can  we  fail  to  believe,  that  the  man  of  the  world  might 
sincerely  take  this  view  of  his  opponents. 

No  wonder  they  whose  life  is  all  deception, 
A  piety  that,  like  a  sheep-skin  drum, 
Is  loud  because  'tis  hollow, — thus  can  move 
Belief  in  others  by  their  swollen  pretences. 
Why,  man,  it  is  their  trade ;  they  do  not  stick 
To  cozen  themselves,  and  will  they  stop  at  you  ? 

The  court  and  council  scenes  are  good.  The  materials  are 
taken  from  history,  with  Shakspearean  adherence  to  the  record, 
but  they  are  uttered  in  masculine  cadences,  sinewy  English,  wor 
thy  this  great  era  in  the  life  of  England. 

The  king  and  queen  and  sycophants  of  the  court  are  too  care- 
essly  drawn.  Such  unmitigated  baseness  and  folly,  are  unbear 
able  in  poetry.  The  master  invests  his  worst  characters  with 
redeeming  traits,  or  at  least,  touches  them  with  a  human  interest, 
that  prevents  their  being  objects  of  disgust  rather  than  contempt 
or  aversion.  This  is  the  poetic  gift,  to  penetrate  to  the  truth  be 
low  the  fact.  We  need  to  hear  the  excuses  men  make  to  them 
selves  for  their  worthlessness. 

The  council  of  the  parliamentary  leaders  is  far  better.  Here 
the  author  speaks  his  natural  language  from  the  lips  of  grave  en 
thusiastic  men.  Pym's  advice  to  his  daughter  is  finely  worded, 


140  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

and  contains  truths,  which,  although  they  have  been  so  often  ex 
pressed,  are  not  like  to  find  so  large  reception,  as  to  dispense  with 
new  and  manifold  utterance. 

The  Lord  has  power 

To  guard  his  own  :  pray,  Mary,  pray  to  Him, 
Nor  fear  what  man  can  do.    A  rule  there  is 
Above  all  circumstance,  a  current  deep 
Beneath  all  fluctuations.     This  who  knows, 
Though  seeming  weakest,  firmly  as  the  sun 
Walks  in  blind  paths  where  earthly  strongest  fall, 
Reason  is  God's  own  voice  to  man,  ordains 
All  holy  duties,  and  all  truth  inspires : 
And  he  who  fails,  errs  not  by  trusting  it, 
But  deafening  to  the  sound  his  ear,  from  dread 
Of  the  stern  roar  it  speaks  with.     O,  my  child, 
Pray  still  for  guidance,  and  be  sure  'twill  come. 
Lift  up  your  heart  upon  the  knees  of  God  ; 
Losing  yourself,  your  smallness,  and  your  darkness, 
In  his  great  light,  who  fills  and  moves  the  world, 
Who  hath  alone  the  quiet  of  perfect  motion — 
Sole  quiet,  not  mere  death. 

The  speech  of  Vane  is  nobly  rendered. 

The  conversations  of  the  populace  are  tolerably  well  done. 
Only  the  greatest  succeed  in  these  ;  nobody  except  Goethe  in 
modern  times.  Here  they  give,  not  the  character  of  the  people, 
but  the  spirit  of  the  time,  playing  in  relation  to  the  main  action 
the  part  of  chorus. 

SECOND  WOMAN. 

There's  Master  St.  John  has  a  tongue 
That  threshes  like  a  flail. 

THIRD   WOMAN. 

And  Master  Fiennes 
That's  a  true  lamb !    He'd  roast  alive  the  Bishop. 

CITIZEN. 

I  was  close  by  the  coach,  and  with  my  nose 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  141 

Upon  the  door,  I  called  out,  Down  with  Strafford ! 
And  then  just  so  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  mine, 
And  something  seemed  to  choke  me  in  the  throat ; 
In  truth,  I  think  it  must  have  been  the  devil ! 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

I  saw  him  as  he  slept  out  of  the  House, 
And  then  his  face  was  dark,  but  very  quiet ; 
It  seemed  like  looking  down  the  dusky  mouth 
Of  a  great  cannon. 

Everard  says  with  expressive  bitterness  as  they  shout  "  Down 
with  Strafford," 

I've  heard  this  noise  so  often,  that  it  seems 
As  natural  as  the  howling  of  the  wind. 

And  again — 

For  forty  years  I've  studied  books  and  men, 

But  ne'er  till  these  last  days  have  known  a  jot 

Of  the  true  secret  madness  in  mankind. 

This  morn  the  whispers  leapt  from  each  to  each, 

Like  a  petard  alight,  which  every  man 

Feared  might  explode  in  his  own  hands,  and  therefore 

Would  haste  to  pass  it  onward  to  his  friend. 

Even  in  our  piping  times  of  peace,  nullification  and  the  Rhode 
Island  difficulties  have  given  us  specimens  of  the  process  of  fer 
mentation,  the  more  than  Virgilian  growth  of  Rumor. 

The  description  of  the  fanatic  preacher  by  Everard  is  very 
good.  The  poor  secretary,  not  placed  in  the  prominent  rank  to 
suffer,  yet  feeling  all  that  passes,  through  his  master,  finds  vent  to 
his  grief,  not  in  mourning,  but  a  strong  causticity  : 

The  sad  fanatic  preacher, 

In  whom  one  saw,  by  glancing  through  the  eyes, 
The  last  grey  curdling  dregs  of  human  joy, 
Dropped  sudden  sparks  that  kindled  where  they  fell. 

Strafford  draws  the  line  between  his  own  religion  and  that  of 


142  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

the  puritans,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  with  noble  phrase  in  his  last  ad 
vices  to  his  son. 

Say  it  has  ever  been  his  father's  mind, 

That  perfect  reason,  justice,  government, 

Are  the  chief  attributes  of  Him  who  made, 

And  who  sustains  the  world,  in  whose  full  being, 

Wisdom  and  power  are  one ;  and  I,  his  creature, 

Would  fain  have  gained  authority  and  rule, 

To  make  the  imagined  order  in  my  soul 

Supreme  o'er  all,  the  proper  good  of  man. 

But  Him  to  love  who  shaped  us,  and  whose  breast 

Is  the  one  home  of  all  things,  with  a  passion 

Electing  Him  amid  all  other  beings, 

As  if  he  were  beside  them,  not  their  all, 

This  is  the  snug  and  dozing  deliration 

Of  men,  who  filch  from  woman  what  is  worst, 

And  cannot  see  the  good.     Of  such  beware. 

This  is  the  nobler  tone  of  Strafford's  spirit.*  That  more  hab 
itual  to  him  is  heard  in  his  presumptuous  joy  before  entering  the 
parliament,  into  which  he  went  as  a  conqueror,  and  came  out  a 
prisoner.  His  confidence  is  not  noble  to  us,  it  is  not  that  of  Bru 
tus  or  Van  Artevelde,  who,  knowing  what  is  prescribed  by  the 
law  of  right  within  the  breast,  can  take  no  other  course  but  that, 
whatever  the  consequences  ;  neither  like  the  faith  of  Julius  Cse- 
sar  or  Wallenstein  in  their  star,  which,  though  less  pure,  is  not 
without  religion ;  but  it  is  the  presumption  of  a  strong  character 

*  His  late  biographer  says  well  in  regard  to  the  magnanimity  of  his  later  days, 
of  so  much  nobler  a  tone  than  his  general  character  would  lead  us  to  expect. 
"It  is  a  mean  as  well  as  a  hasty  judgment,  which  would  attribute  this  to  any 
unworthy  compromise  with  his  real  nature.  It  is  probably  a  juster  and  more 
profound  view  of  it,  to  say  that,  into  a  few  of  the  later  weeks  of  his  life,  new 
knowledge  had  penetrated  from  the  midst  of  the  breaking  of  his  fortunes.  It 
was  well  and  beautifully  said  by  a  then  living  poet, 

'  The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 
Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that  time  has  made.' " 

Forster's  Life  of  Stratford,  Lardner's  Cabinet  CyclopaxKa. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  143 

which,  though  its  head  towers  above  those  of  its  companions  when 
they  are  on  the  same  level,  yet  has  not  taken  a  sufficiently  high 
platform,  to  see  what  passes  around  or  above  it.  Strafford's 
strength  cannot  redeem  his  infatuation,  while  he  struggles ;  van 
quished,  not  overwhelmed,  he  is  a  majestic  figure,  whose  features* 
are  well  marked  in  various  passages. 

Compared  with  him,  whom  I  for  eighteen  years 

Have  seen  familiar  as  my  friend,  all  men 

Seem  but  as  chance-born  flies,  and  only  he 

Great  Nature's  chosen  and  all-gifted  son. 

j-Van  Artevelde  also  bears  testimony  to  the  belief  of  the  author, 
that  familiarity  breeds  no  contempt,  but  the  reverse  in  the  service 
of  genuine  nobility.  A  familiarity  of  eighteen  years  will  not 
make  any  but  a  stage  hero,  other  than  a  hero  to  his  valet  de 
cliambre. 

King  Charles  says, 

To  pass  the  bill, — 

Under  his  eye,  with  that  fixed  quiet  look 
Of  imperturbable  and  thoughtful  greatness, 
I  cannot  do  it. 

Strafford  himself  says,  on  the  final  certainty  of  the  king's  de 
sertion, 

Dear  Everard,  peace!  for  there  is  nothing  here 
I  have  not  weighed  before,  and  made  my  own. 

*  "  A  poet,  who  was  present,  exclaimed, 
On  thy  brow 

Sate  terror  mixed  with  wisdom,  and  at  once 
Saturn  and  Hermes  in  thy  countenance." 

Life  of  Strafford,  p.  338. 

Certainly  there  could  not  be  a  more  pointed  and  pregnant  account  given  of 
the  man  than  is  suggested  by  this  last  line. 
t  That  with  familiarity  respect 
Doth  slacken,  is  a  word  of  common  use ; 
I  never  found  it  so. 

Philip  Van  Artevelde,  3d  Part,  p.  29. 


144  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

And  this,  no  doubt,  was  true,  in  a  sense.  Historians,  finding 
that  Strafford  expressed  surprise,  and  even  indignation,  that  tho 
king  had  complied  with  StrafFord's  own  letter  releasing  him  from 
all  obligation  to  save  his  life,  have  intimated  that  the  letter  was 
written  out  of  policy.  But  this  is  a  superficial  view  ;  it  produces 
very  different  results  from  giving  up  all  to  another  to  see  him  take 
it ;  and,  though  Strafford  must  have  known  Charles's  weakness 
too  well  to  expect  any  thing  good  from  him,  yet  the  consummation 
must  have  produced  fresh  emotion,  for  a  strong  character  cannot 
be  prepared  for  the  conduct  of*  a  weak  one  ;  there  is  always  in 
dishonour  somewhat  unexpected  and  incredible  to  one  incapable 
of  it. 

The  speeches  in  parliament  are  well  translated  from  the  page 
of  history.  The  poet,  we  think,  has  improved  upon  it  in  Straf- 
ford's  mention  of  his  children ;  it  has  not  the  theatrical  tone  of 
the  common  narrative,  and  is,  probably,  nearer  truth,  as  it  is  more 
consistent  with  the  rest  of  his  deportment. 

He  has  made  good  use  of  the  fine  anecdote  of  the  effect  pro 
duced  on  Pym  by  meeting  Strafford's  eye  at  the  close  of  one  of 
his  most  soaring  passages. 


The  King  is  King,  but  as  he  props  the  State, 

The  State  a  legal  and  compacted  bond, 

Tying  us  all  in  sweet  fraternity, 

And  that  loosed  off  by  fraud ful  creeping  hand, 

Or  cut  and  torn  by  lawless  violence, 

There  is  no  King  because  the  State  is  gone ; 

And  in  the  cannibal  chaos  that  remains 

Each  man  is  sovereign  of  himself  alone. 

Shall  then  a  drunken  regicidal  blow 

Be  paid  by  forfeit  of  the  driveller's  head, 

And  he  go  free,  who,  slaying  Law  itself, 

Murders  all  royalty  and  all  subjection  ? 

He  who,  with  all  the  radiant  attributes 

That  most,  save  goodness,  can  adorn  a  man, 


THE  MODERN   DRAMA.  145 

Would  turn  his  kind  to  planless  brutishness. 
His  knavery  soars,  indeed,  and  strikes  the  stars, 
Yet  is  worse  knavery  than  the  meanest  felon's. 

(Strqffbrd  fixes  his  eyes  on  Pym,  icJto  hesitates.) 
Oh  !  no,  my  Lords,  Oh  !  no, 

{Aside  to  Hampden.)     His  eye  confounds  me  ;  he*  was  once  my 
friend. 

Oh  !  no,  my  Lords,  the  very  self-same  rule,  &c. 


The  eloquence  of  this  period  could  not  be  improved  upon  ;  but 
it  is  much  to  select  from  and  use  its  ebullitions  with  the  fine  effect 
we  admire  in  this  play.  Whatever  view  be  taken  of  Strafford, 
whether  as  condemnatory  as  the  majority  of  writers  popular  among 
us,  the  descendants  of  the  puritans,  would  promote,  or  that  more 
lenient  and  discriminating,  brought  out  in  this  play,  for  which 
abundant  grounds  may  be  discovered  by  those  who  will  seek,  we 
cannot  view  him  at  this  period  but  with  the  interest  of  tragedy  as 
of  one  suffering  unjustly.  For  however  noble  the  eloquence  of 
the  parliamentary  leaders  in  appealing  to  a  law  above  the  law,  to 
an  eternal  justice  in  the  breast,  which  afforded  sufficient  sanction 
to  the  desired  measure,  it  cannot  but  be  seen,  at  this  distance  of 
time,  that  this  reigned  not  purely  in  their  own  breasts,  that  his 
doom,  though  sought  by  them  from  patriotic,  not  interested,  mo 
tives,  was,  in  itself,  a  measure  of  expediency.  He  was  the  vic 
tim,  because  the  most  dreaded  foe,  because  they  could  not  go  on 
with  confidence,  while  the  only  man  lived,  who  could  and  would 
sustain  Charles  in  his  absurd  and  wicked  policy.  Thus,  though 

*  Through  the  whole  of  the  speech  Stratford  is  described  to  have  been  closely 
and  earnestly  watching  Pym,  when  the  latter  suddenly  turning,  met  the  fixed 
and  faded  eyes  and  haggard  features  of  his  early  associate,  and  a  rush  of  feel 
ings  from  other  days,  so  fearfully  contrasting  the  youth  and  friendship  of  the 
past  with  the  love-poisoned  hate  of  the  present,  and  the  mortal  agony  impend 
ing  in  the  future,  for  a  moment  deprived  the  patriot  of  self-possession.  "  Hi« 
papers  he  looked  on,"  says  Baillie,  "  but  they  could  not  help  him,  so  he  behoov 
ed  to  pass  them."  For  a  moment  only  ;  suddenly  recovering  his  dignity  and 
•elf-command,  he  told  the  court,  &c.  —  Life  of  Pym,  Cabinet  Cyclopaedia. 

8 


146  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

he  might  deserve  that  the  people  on  whom  he  trampled  should 
rise  up  to  crush  him,  that  the  laws  he  had  broken  down  should 
rear  new  and  higher  walls  to  imprison  him,  though  the  shade  of 
Eliot  called  for  vengeance  on  the  counsellor  who  alone  had  so 
long  saved  the  tyrant  from  a  speedier  fall,  and  the  victims  of  his 
own  oppressions  echoed  with  sullen  murmur  to  the  "  silver  trum 
pet"  call,*  yet  the  greater  the  peculiar  offences  of  this  man,  the 
more  need  that  his  punishment  should  have  been  awarded  in  an 
absolutely  pure  spirit.  And  this  it  was  not ;  it  may  be  respected 
as  an  act  of  just  retribution,  but  not  of  pure  justice. 

Men  who  had  such  a  cause  to  maintain,  as  his  accusers  had, 
should  deserve  the  praise  awarded  by  Wordsworth  to  him  who, 

In  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 
And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 
Yet  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows. 

The  heart  swells  against  StrafTord  as  we  read  the  details  of 
his  policy.  Even  allowing  that  his  native  temper,  prejudices  of 
birth,  and  disbelief  in  mankind,  really  inclined  him  to  a  despotic 
government,  as  the  bad  best  practicable,  that  his  early  espousal 
of  the  popular  side  was  only  a  stratagem  to  terrify  the  court,  and 
that  he  was  thus,  though  a  deceiver,  no  apostate,  yet,  he  had 
been  led,  from  whatever  motives,  to  look  on  that  side  ;  his  great 
intellect  was  clear  of  sight,  the  front  presented  by  better  princi 
ples  in  that  time  commanding.  We  feel  that  he  was  wilful  in 
the  course  he  took,  and  self-aggrandizement  his  principal,  if  not 
his  only  motive.  We  share  the  hatred  of  his  time,  as  we  see 
him  so  triumphant  in  his  forceful,  wrongful  measures.  But  we 
would  not  have  had  him  hunted  down  with  such  a  hue  and  cry, 

*  "  I  will  not  repeat,  Sirs,  what  you  have  heard  from  that  silver  trumpet" 
One  of  the  parliament  speaking  of  Rudyard. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  147 

that  the  tones  of  defence  had  really  no  chance  to  be  heard.  We 
would  not  have  had  papers  stolen,  and  by  a  son  from  a  father 
who  had  entrusted  him  with  a  key,  to  condemn  him.  And  what 
a  man  was  this  thief,  one  whose  high  enthusiastic  hope  never 
paused  at  good,  but  ever  rushed  onward  to  the  best. 

Who  would  outbid  the  market  of  the  world, 
And  seek  a  holier  than  a  common  prize, 
And  by  the  unworthy  lever  of  to-day 
Ope  the  strange  portals  of  a  better  morn. 

***** 

Begin  to-day,  nor  end  till  evil  sink 

In  its  due  grave ;  and  if  at  once  we  may  not 

Declare  the  greatness  of  the  work  we  plan, 

Be  sure,  at  least,  that  ever  in  our  eyes 

It  stand  complete  before  us,  as  a  dome 

Of  light  beyond  this  gloom ;  a  house  of  stars, 

Encompassing  these  dusky  tents ;  a  thing 

Absolute,  close  to  all,  though  seldom  seen, 

Near  as  our  hearts,  and  perfect  as  the  heavens. 

Be  this  our  aim  and  model,  and  our  hands 

Shall  not  wax  faint  until  the  work  is  done. 

He  is  not  the  first,  who,  by  looking  too  much  at  the  stars  has 
lost  the  eye  for  severe  fidelity  to  a  private  trust.  He  thought 
himself  "obliged  in  conscience  to  impart  the  paper  to  Master 
Pyra."  Who  that  looks  at  the  case  by  the  code  of  common  rec 
titude  can  think  it  was  ever  his  to  impart  ? 

What  monstrous  measures  appear  the  arbitrary  construction 
put  on  the  one  word  in  the  minutes  which  decided  the  fate  of 
Strafford,  the  freeing  the  lords  of  council  from  the  oath  of  secrecy 
under  whose  protection  he  had  spoken  there,  the  conduct  of  the 
House  towards  Lord  Digby,  when  he  declared  himself  not  satis 
fied  that  the  prisoner  could  with  justice  be  declared  guilty  of  trea 
son  ;  the  burning  his  speech  by  the  common  hangman  when  he 
dared  print  it,  to  make  known  the  reasons  of  his  course  to  the 
world,  when  placarded  as  Straffordian,  held  up  as  a  mark  for 


148  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

popular  rage  for  speaking  it.*  Lord  Digby  was  not  a  man  of 
honour,  but  they  did  not  know  that,  or  if  they  did,  it  had  nothing 
to  do  with  his  right  of  private  judgment.  What  could  Strafford, 
what  could  Charles  do  more  high-handed  ?  If  they  had  violated 
the  privileges  of  parliament,  the  more  reason  parliament  should 
respect  their  privileges,  above  all  the  privilege  of  the  prisoner,  to 
be  supposed  innocent  until  proved  guilty.  The  accusers,  obliged 
to  set  aside  rule,  and  appeal  to  the  very  foundations  of  equity, 
could  only  have  sanctioned  such  a  course  by  the  religion  and 
pure  justice  of  their  proceedings.  Here  the  interest  of  the  ac 
cusers  made  them  not  only  demand,  but  insist  upon,  the  condem 
nation  ;  the  cause  was  prejudged  by  the  sentiment  of  the  people, 
and  the  resentments  of  the  jury,  and  the  proceedings  conducted, 
beside,  with  the  most  scandalous  disregard  to  the  sickness  and 
other  disadvantageous  circumstances  of  Strafford.  He  was  called 
on  to  answer  "  if  he  will  come,"  just  at  the  time  of  a  most  dan 
gerous  attack  from  his  cruel  distemper ;  if  he  will  not  come,  the 
cause  is  still  to  be  pushed  forward.  He  was  denied  the  time  and 
means  he  needed  to  collect  his  evidence.  The  aid  to  be  given 
him  by  counsel,  after  being  deprived  of  his  chief  witness  "  by  a 
master  stroke  of  policy,"  was  restricted  within  narrow  limits. 
While  he  prepared  his  answers,  in  full  court,  for  he  was  never 
allowed  to  retire,  to  the  points  of  accusation,  vital  in  their  import, 
requiring  the  closest  examination,  those  present  talked,  laughed, 
ate,  lounged  about.  None  of  this  disturbed  his  magnanimous  pa 
tience  ;  his  conduct  indeed  is  so  noble,  through  the  whole  period, 
that  he  and  his  opponents  change  places  in  our  minds ;  at  the 
time,  he  seems  the  princely  deer,  and  they  the  savage  hounds. f 

*  See  Parliamentary  History,  volume  ix. 

t  Who  can  avoid  a  profound  feeling,  not  only  of  compassion,  but  sympathy, 
when  he  reads  of  Strafford  obliged  to  kneel  in  Westminster  Hall.  True,  he 
would,  if  possible,  have  brought  others  as  low;  but  there  is  a  deep  pathos  in  the 
contrast  of  his  then,  and  his  former  state,  best  shown  by  the  symbol  of  such  an 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA.  149 

Well,  it  is  all  the  better  for  the  tragedy,  but  as  we  read  the  sub 
lime  appeals  of  Pym  to  a  higher  state  of  being,  we  cannot  but 
wish  that  all  had  been  done  in  accordance  with  them.  The  art 
and  zeal,  with  which  the  condemnation  of  Strafford  was  obtained, 
have  had  high  praise  as  statesmanlike  ;  we  would  have  wished 
for  them  one  so  high  as  to  preclude  this. 

No  doubt  great  temporary  good  was  effected  for  England  by 
the  death  of  Strafford,  but  the  permanence  of  good  is  ever  in  pro 
portion  with  the  purity  of  the  means  used  to  obtain  it.  This  act 
would  have  been  great  for  Strafford,  for  it  was  altogether  in  ac 
cordance  with  his  views.  He  met  the  parliament  ready  to  do 
battle  to  the  death,  and  might  would  have  been  right,  had  he  made 
rules  for  the  lists ;  but  they  proposed  a  different  rule  for  their  gov 
ernment,  and  by  that  we  must  judge  them.  Admit  the  story  of 
Vane's  pilfering  the  papers  not  to  be  true,  that  the  minutes  were 
obtained  some  other  way.  This  measure,  on  the  supposition  of 
its  existence,  is  defended  by  those  who  defend  the  rest. 

Strafford  would  certainly  have  come  off  with  imprisonment  and 
degradation  from  office,  had  the  parliament  deemed  it  safe  to  leave 
him  alive.  When  we  consider  this,  when  we  remember  the  threat 
of  Pym,  at  the  time  of  his  deserting  the  popular  party,  "  You  have 
left  us,  but  I  will  never  leave  you  while  your  head  is  on  your 
shoulders,"  we  see  not,  setting  aside  the  great  results  of  the  act, 
and  looking  at  it  by  its  merits  alone,  that  it  differs  from  the  ad 
ministration  of  Lynch  law  in  some  regions  of  our  own  country. 


act.  Just  so  we  read  of  Bonaparte's  green  coat  being  turned  at  St.  Helena,  af 
ter  it  had  faded  on  the  right  side.  He  who  had  overturned  the  world,  to  end 
with  having  his  old  coat  turned !  There  is  something  affecting,  Belisarius-like 
in  the  picture.  When  Warren  Hastings  knelt  in  Westminster  Hall,  the  chatter 
ing  but  pleasant  Miss  Burney  tells  us,  Wyndham,  for  a  moment  struck,  half 
shrunk  from  the  business  of  prosecuting  him.  At  such  a  sight,  whispers  in 
every  breast  the  monition,  Had  I  been  similarly  tempted,  had  I  not  fallen  as  low, 
or  lower  1 


150  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Lynch  law,  with  us,  has  often  punished  the  gamester  and  the  rob- 
her,  whom  it  was  impossible  to  convict  by  the  usual  legal  process ; 
the  evil  in  it  is,  that  it  cannot  be  depended  upon,  but,  while  with 
one  hand  it  punishes  a  villain,  administers  with  the  other  as  sum 
mary  judgment  on  the  philanthropist,  according  as  the  moral  sen 
timent  or  prejudice  may  be  roused  in  the  popular  breast. 

We  have  spoken  disparagingly  of  the  capacities  of  the  drama 
for  representing  what  is  peculiar  in  our  own  day,  but,  for  such  a 
work  as  this,  presenting  a  great  crisis  with  so  much  clearness, 
force,  and  varied  beauty,  we  can  only  be  grateful,  and  ask  for 
more  acquaintance  with  the  same  mind,  whether  through  the 
drama  or  in  any  other  mode. 

Copious  extracts  have  been  given,  in  the  belief  that  thus,  bet 
ter  than  by  any  interpretation  or  praise  of  ours,  attention  would 
be  attracted,  and  a  wider  perusal  ensured  to  Mr.  Sterling's 
works. 

In  his  mind  there  is  a  combination  of  reverence  for  the  Ideal, 
with  a  patient  appreciation  of  its  slow  workings  in  the  actual 
world,  that  is  rare  in  our  time.  He  looks  religiously,  he  speaks 
philosophically,  nor  these  alone,  but  with  that  other  faculty  which 
he  himself  so  well  describes. 

You  bear  a  brain 
Discursive,  open,  generally  wise, 
But  missing  ever  that  excepted  point 
That  gives  each  thing  and  hour  a  special  oneness. 
The  little  key-hole  of  the  infrangible  door, 
The  instant  on  which  hangs  eternity, 
And  not  in  the  dim  past  and  empty  future, 
Waste  fields  for  abstract  notions. 

Such  is  the  demonology  of  the  man  of  the  world.  It  may  rule 
in  accordance  with  the  law  of  right,  but  where  it  does  not,  the 
strongest  man  may  lose  the  battle,  and  so  it  was  with  StrafFord. 


DIALOGUE 

CONTAINING    SUNDRY    GLOSSES    ON    POETIC    TEXTS. 

SCENE  is  in  a  chamber,  in  the  upper  story  of  a  city  boarding  house.  The  room 
is  small,  but  neat  and  furnished  with  some  taste.  There  are  books,  a  few 
flowers,  even  a  chamber  organ.  On  the  wall  hangs  a  fine  engraving  from 
one  of  Dominichino's  pictures.  The  curtain  is  drawn  up,  and  shows  the 
moonlight  falling  on  the  roofs  and  chimnies  of  the  city  and  the  distant  water, 
on  whose  bridges  threads  of  light  burn  dully. 

To  Aglauron  enter  Laurie.  A  kindly  greeting  having  been 
interchanged, 

Laurie.  It  is  a  late  hour,  I  confess,  for  a  visit,  but  coming 
home  I  happened  to  see  the  light  from  your  window,  and  the  re 
membrance  of  our  pleasant  evenings  here  in  other  days  came  so 
strongly  over  me,  that  I  could  not  help  trying  the  door. 

Aglauron.  I  do  not  now  see  you  here  so  often,  that  I  could 
afford  to  reject  your  visits  at  any  hour. 

L.  (Seating  himself,  looks  round  for  a  moment  with  an  ex 
pression  of  some  sadness.)  All  here  looks  the  same,  your  fire 
burns  bright,  the  moonlight  I  see  you  like  to  have  come  in  as 
formerly,  and  we, — we  are  not  changed,  Aglauron  ? 

A.     I  am  not. 

L.     Not  towards  me  ? 

A.  You  have  elected  other  associates,  as  better  pleasing  or 
more  useful  to  you  than  I.  Our  intercourse  no  longer  ministers 
to  my  thoughts,  to  my  hopes.  To  think  of  you  with  that  habit 
ual  affection,  with  that  lively  interest  I  once  did,  would  be  as  if 
the  mutilated  soldier  should  fix  his  eyes  constantly  on  the  empty 


152  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

sleeve  of  his  coat.     My  right  hand  beiag  taken  from  me,  I  use 
my  left. 

L.  You  speak  coldly,  Aglauron  ;  you  cannot  doubt  that  my 
friendship  for  you  is  the  same  as  ever. 

A.  You  should  not  reproach  me  for  speaking  coldly.  You 
have  driven  me  to  subdue  my  feelings  by  reason,  and  the  tone  of 
reason  seems  cold  because  it  is  calm. 

You  say  your  friendship  is  the  same.  Your  thoughts  of  your 
friend  are  the  same,  your  feelings  towards  him  are  not.  Your 
feelings  flow  now  in  other  channels. 

L.     Am  I  to  blame  for  that  ? 

A.  Surely  not.  No  one  is  to  blame  ;  if  either  were  so,  it 
would  be  I,  for  not  possessing  more  varied  powers  to  satisfy  the 
variations  and  expansions  of  your  nature. 

L.     But  have  I  not  seemed  heartless  to  you  at  times  ? 

A.  In  the  moment,  perhaps,  but  quiet  thought  always  showed 
me  the  difference  between  heartlessness  and  the  want  of  a  deep 
heart. 

Nor  do  I  think  this  will  eventually  be  denied  you.  You  are 
generous,  you  love  truth.  Time  will  make  you  less  restless,  be 
cause  less  bent  upon  yourself,  will  give  depth  and  steadfastness 
to  that  glowing  heart.  Tenderness  will  then  come  of  itself. 
You  will  take  upon  you  the  bonds  of  friendship  less  easily  and 
knit  them  firmer. 

L.     And  you  will  then  receive  me  ? 

A.     I  or  some  other  ;  it  matters  not. 

L.     Ah  !  you  have  become  indifferent  to  me. 

A.  What  would  you  have  ?  That  gentle  trust,  which  seems 
to  itself  immortal,  cannot  be  given  twice.  What  is  sweet  and 
flower-like  in  the  mind  is  very  timid,  and  can  only  be  tempted 
out  by  the  wooing  breeze  and  infinite  promise  of  spring.  Those 
flowers,  once  touched  by  a  cold  wind,  will  not  revive  again. 

L.     But  their  germs  lie  in  the  earth. 


DIALOGUE.  153 


A.  Yes,  to  await  a  new  spring !  But  this  conversation  is 
profitless.  Words  can  neither  conceal  nor  make  up  for  the  want 
of  flowing  love.  I  do  not  blame  you,  Laurie,  but  I  cannot  af 
ford  to  love  you  as  I  have  done  any  more,  nor  would  it  avail 
either  of  us,  if  I  could.  Seek  elsewhere  what  you  can  no  longer 
duly  prize  from  me.  Let  us  not  seek  to  raise  the  dead  from 
their  tombs,  but  cherish  rather  the  innocent  children  of  to-day. 

L.  But  I  cannot  be  happy  unless  there  is  a  perfectly  good 
understanding  between  us. 

A.  That,  indeed,  we  ought  to  have.  I  feel  the  power  of  un 
derstanding  your  course,  whether  it  bend  my  way  or  not.  I 
need  not  communication  from  you,  or  personal  relation  to  do 
that, 

"  Have  I  the  human  kernel  first  examined, 
Then  I  know,  too,  the  future  will  and  action." 

I  have  known  you  too  deeply  to  misjudge  you,  in  the  long  run. 

L.     Yet  you  have  been  tempted  to  think  me  heartless. 

A.  For  the  moment  only  ;  have  I  not  said  it  ?  Thought  al 
ways  convinced  me  that  I  could  not  have  been  so  shallow  as  to 
barter  heart  for  anything  but  heart.  I  only,  by  the  bold  play 
natural  to  me,  led  you  to  stake  too  high  for  your  present  income. 
I  do  not  demand  the  forfeit  on  the  friendly  game.  Do  you  un 
derstand  me  ? 

L.     No,  I  do  not  understand  being  both  friendly  and  cold. 

A.  Thou  wilt,  when  thou  shalt  have  lent  as  well  as  bor 
rowed. 

I  can  bring  forward  on  this  subject  gospel  independent  of  our 
own  experience.  The  poets,  as  usual,  have  thought  out  the  sub 
ject  for  their  age.  And  it  is  an  age  where  the  complex  and  sub- 
tie  workings  of  its  spirit  make  it  not  easy  for  the  immortal  band, 
the  sacred  band  of  equal  friends,  to  be  formed  into  phalanx,  or 
march  with  equal  step  in  any  form. 

8* 


154  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Soon  after  I  had  begun  to  read  some  lines  of  our  horoscope,  I 
found  this  poem  in  Wordsworth,  which  seemed  to  link  into  mean 
ing  many  sounds  that  were  vibrating  round  me. 

A  COMPLAINT. 

There  is  a  change,  and  I  am  poor ; 
Your  Love  hath  been,  nor  long  ago, 

A  Fountain  at  my  fond  Heart's  door, 
Whose  only  business  was  to  flow ; 

And  flow  it  did  ;  not  taking  heed 
Of  its  own  bounty,  or  my  need. 

What  happy  moments  did  I  count, 
Blest  was  I  then  all  bliss  above ; 
•  Now,  for  this  consecrated  Fount 

Of  murmuring,  sparkling,  living  love, 
What  have  1 1  shall  I  dare  to  telH 
A  comfortless  and  hidden  WELL. 

A  Well  of  love,  it  may  be  deep, 
I  trust  it  is,  and  never  dry ; 

What  matter  1  if  the  Waters  sleep 
In  silence  and  obscurity, 

Such  change,  and  at  the  very  door 
Of  my  fond  heart,  hath  made  me  poor. 

This,  at  the  time,  seemed  unanswerable  ;  yet,  afterwards  I 
found  among  the  writings  of  Coleridge  what  may  serve  as  a  suf 
ficient  answer. 

A  SOLILOQUY. 

Unchanged  within  to  see  all  changed  without 
Is  a  blank  lot  and  hard  to  bear,  no  doubt. 

Yet  why  at  other's  wanings  shouldst  thou  fret  1 
Then  only  might'st  thou  feel  a  just  regret, 

Hadst  thou  withheld  thy  love,  or  hid  thy  light 
In  selfish  forethought  of  neglect  and  slight, 

O  wiselier,  then,  from  feeble  yearnings  freed, 
While,  and  on  whom,  thou  mayst,  shine  on!  nor  heed 

Whether  the  object  by  reflected  light 
Return  thy  radiance  or  absorb  it  quite ; 


DIALOGUE.  155 


And  though  thou  notest  from  thy  safe  recess 
Old  Friends  burn  dim,  like  lamps  in  noisome  air, 

Love  them  for  what  they  are ;  nor  love  them  less, 
Because  to  thee  they  are  not  what  they  were. 

L.  Do  you  expect  to  be  able  permanently  to  abide  by  such 
solace  ? 

A.  I  do  not  expect  so  Olympian  a  calmness,  that  at  first, 
when  the  chain  of  intercourse  is  broken,  when  confidence  is  dis 
mayed,  and  thought  driven  back  upon  its  source,  I  shall  not  feel 
a  transient  pang,  even  a  shame,  as  when 

"  The  sacred  secret  hath  flown  out  of  us, 
And  the  heart  been  broken  open  by  deep  care." 

The  wave  receding,  leaves  the  strand  for  the  moment  forlorn, 
and  weed-bestrown. 

L.  And  is  there  no  help  for  this  ?  Is  there  not  a  pride,  a 
prudence,  identical  with  self-respect,  that  could  preserve  us  from 
such  mistakes  ? 

A.  If  you  can  show  me  one  that  is  not  selfish  forethought  of 
neglect  or  slight,  I  would  wear  it  and  recommend  it  as  the  de 
sired  amulet.  As  yet,  I  know  no  pride,  no  prudence  except  love 
of  truth. 

Would  a  prudence  be  desirable  that  should  have  hindered  our 
intimacy  ? 

L.     Ah,  no  !  it  was  happy,  it  was  rich. 

A.  Very  well  then,  let  us  drink  the  bitter  with  as  good  a 
grace  as  the  sweet,  and  for  to-night  talk  no  more  of  ourselves. 

L.  To  talk  then  of  those  other,  better  selves,  the  poets.  I 
can  well  understand  that  Coleridge  should  have  drunk  so  deeply 
as  he  did  of  this  bitter-sweet.  His  nature  was  ardent,  intense, 
variable  in  its  workings,  one  of  tides,  crises,  fermentations.  He 
was  the  flint  from  which  the  spark  must  be  struck  by  violent  col 
lision.  His  life  was  a  mass  in  the  midst  of  which  fire  glowed, 
but  needed  time  to  transfuse  it,  as  his  heavenly  eyes  glowed 


156  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

amid  such  heavy  features.  The  habit  of  taking  opium  was  but 
an  outward  expression  of  the  transports  and  depressions  to  which 
he  was  inly  prone.  In  him  glided  up  in  the  silence,  equally 
vivid,  the  Christabel,  the  Geraldine.  Through  his  various 
mind 

"Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea." 

He  was  one  of  those  with  whom 

"  The  meteor  offspring  of  the  brain 

Unnourished  wane, 
Faith  asks  her  daily  bread, 
And  fancy  must  be  fed." 

And  when  this  was  denied, 

"  Came  a  restless  state,  'twixt  yea  and  nay, 

His  faith  was  fixed,  his  heart  all  ebb  and  flow; 
Or  like  a  bark,  in  some  half-sheltered  bay, 
Above  its  anchor  driving  to  and  fro." 

Thus  we  cannot  wonder  that  he,  with  all  his  vast  mental  re 
sources  and  noble  aims,  should  have  been  the  bard  elect  to  sing 
of  Dejection,  and  that  the  pages  of  his  prose  works  should  be 
blistered  by  more  painful  records  of  personal  and  social  expe 
riences,  than  we  find  in  almost  any  from  a  mind  able  to  invoke 
the  aid  of  divine  philosophy,  a  mind  touched  by  humble  piety. 
But  Wordsworth,  who  so  early  knew,  and  sought,  and  found  the 
life  and  the  work  he  wanted,  whose  wide  and  equable  thought 
flows  on  like  a  river  through  the  plain,  whose  verse  seemed  to 
come  daily  like  the  dew  to  rest  upon  the  flowers  of  home  affec 
tions,  we  should  think  he  might  always  have  been  with  his  friend, 
as  he  describes  two  who  had  grown  up  together, 

"  Each  other's  advocate,  each  other's  stay, 

And  strangers  to  content,  if  long  apart, 
Or  more  divided  than  a  sportive  pair 


DIALOGUE.  157 


Of  sea-fowl,  conscious  both  that  they  are  hovering 
Within  the  eddy  of  a  common  blast, 

Or  hidden  only  by  the  concave  depth 
Of  neighbouring  billows  from  each  other's  sight." 

And  that  we  should  not  find  in  him  traces  of  the  sort  of  wound, 
nor  the  tone  of  deep  human  melancholy  that  we  find  in  this  Com 
plaint,  and  in  the  sonnet,  "  Why  art  thou  silent." 

A.     I  do  not  remember  that. 

L.  It  is  in  the  last  published  volume  of  his  poems,  though 
probably  written  many  years  before. 

"  Why  art  thou  silent  1   Is  thy  love  a  plant 

Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair  1 

Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant7? 
Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant, 

(As  would  my  deeds  have  been)  with  hourly  care, 
The  mind's  least  generous  wish  a  mendicant 

For  naught  but  what  thy  happiness  could  spare. 
Speak,  though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once  free  to  hold 

A  thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine, 
Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cold, 

Than  a  forsaken  bird's  nest  filled  with  snow, 
Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine ; 

Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their  end  may  know." 

A.  That  is  indeed  the  most  pathetic  description  of  the  speech 
less  palsy  that  precedes  the  death  of  love. 

"  Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant  7" 

But  Laurie,  how  could  you  ever  fancy  a  mind  of  poetic  sensi 
bility  would  be  a  stranger  to  this  sort  of  sadness  ? 

What  signifies  the  security  of  a  man's  own  position  and 
choice  ?  The  peace  and  brightness  of  his  own  lot  ?  If  he  has 
this  intelligent  sensibility  can  he  fail  to  perceive  the  throb  that 
agitates  the  bosom  of  all  nature,  or  can  his  own  fail  to  respond 
*"  it  ? 


158  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

In  the  eye  of  man,  or  in  the  sunset  clouds,  from  the  sobs  of 
literature,  or  those  of  the  half-spent  tempest,  can  he  fail  to  read 
the  secrets  of  fate  and  time,  of  an  over-credulous  hope,  a  too 
much  bewailed  disappointment  ?  Will  not  a  very  slight  hint 
convey  to  the  mind  in  which  the  nobler  faculties  are  at  all  de 
veloped,  a  sense  of  the  earthquakes  which  may  in  a  moment  up 
heave  his  vineyard  and  whelm  his  cottage  beneath  rivers  of  fire. 
Can  the  poet  at  any  time,  like  the  stupid  rich  man,  say  to  his 
soul,  "  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry."  No,  he  must  ever  say  to  his 
fellow  man,  as  Menelaus  to  his  kingly  brother, 

"  Shall  my  affairs 
Go  pleasantly,  while  thine  are  full  of  woe*?" 

Oh,  never  could  Wordsworth  fail,  beside  his  peaceful  lake,  to 
know  the  tempests  of  the  ocean.  And  to  an  equable  tempera 
ment  sorrow  seems  sadder  than  it  really  is,  for  such  know  less 
of  the  pleasures  of  resistance. 

It  needs  not  that  one  of  deeply  thoughtful  mind  be  passionate, 
to  divine  all  the  secrets  of  passion.  Thought  is  a  bee  that  can 
not  miss  those  flowers. 

Think  you  that  if  Hamlet  had  held  exactly  the  position  best 
fitted  to  his  nature,  had  his  thoughts  become  acts,  without  any 
violent  willing  of  his  own,  had  a  great  people  paid  life-long  hom 
age  to  his  design,  had  he  never  detected  the  baseness  of  his 
mother,  nor  found  cause  to  suspect  the  untimely  fate  of  his  fa 
ther,  had  that  "  rose  of  May,  the  sweet  Ophelia,"  bloomed  safely 
at  his  side,  and  Horatio  always  been  near,  with  his  understand 
ing  mind  and  spotless  hands,  do  you  think  all  this  could  have 
preserved  Hamlet  from  the  astounding  discovery  that 

"  A  man  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain  1" 

That  line,  once  written  on  his  tables,  would  have  required  the 
commentary  of  many  years  for  its  explanation. 


DIALOGUE.  159 


L.  He  was  one  by  nature  adapted  to  "  consider  too  curiously," 
for  his  own  peace. 

A.     All  thoughtful  minds  are  so. 

L.     All  geniuses  have  not  been  sad. 

.A.  So  far  as  they  are  artistic,  merely,  they  differ  not  from  in 
stinctive,  practical  characters,  they  find  relief  in  work.  But  so 
far  as  they  tend  to  evolve  thought,  rather  than  to  recreate  the 
forms  of  things,  they  suffer  again  and  again  the  pain  of  death, 
because  they  open  the  gate  to  the  next,  the  higher  realm  of  be 
ing.  Shakspeare  knew  both,  the  joy  of  creation,  the  deep  pang 
of  knowledge,  and  this  last  he  has  expressed  in  Hamlet  with  a 
force  that  vibrates  almost  to  the  centre  of  things. 

L.  It  is  marvellous,  indeed,  to  hear  the  beautiful  young 
prince  catalogue — 

"  The  heartache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  *  *  *  * 

*  *  The  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  The  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes." 

To  thee,  Hamlet,  so  complete  a  nature, 

"  The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state, 
The  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 
The  unmatched  form  and  feature  of  blown  youth," 

could  such  things  come  so  near  ?  Who  then  shall  hope  a  refuge, 
except  through  inborn  stupidity  or  perfected  faith  ? 

A.  Ay,  well  might  he  call  his  head  a  globe !  It  was  fitted  to 
comprehend  all  that  makes  up  that  "  quintessence  of  dust,  how 
noble  in  reason ;  how  infinite  in  faculties ;  in  form,  and  moving, 
how  express  and  admirable ;  in  action  how  like  an  angel,  in  ap 
prehension  how  like  a  god ;  the  beauty  of  the  world,  the  paragon 
of  animals  !"  yet  to  him,  only  a  quintessence  of  dust ! 

L.     And  this  world  only  "  a  sterile  promontory." 


160  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

A.  Strange,  that  when  from  it  one  can  look  abroad  into  the 
ocean,  its  barrenness  should  be  so  depressing.  But  man  seems 
to  need  some  shelter,  both  from  wind  and  rain. 

L.     Could  he  not  have  found  this  in  the  love  of  Ophelia  ? 

A.  Probably  not,  since  that  love  had  so  little  power  to  disen 
chant  the  gloom  of  this  period.  She  was  to  him  a  flower  to  wear 
in  his  bosom,  a  child  to  play  the  lute  at  his  feet.  We  see  the 
charm  of  her  innocence,  her  soft  credulity,  as  she  answers  her 
brother, 

"  No  more,  but  so  1" 
The  exquisite  grace  of  her  whole  being  in  the  two  lines 

"  And  I  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched 
That  sucked  the  honey  of  his  music  vows." 

She  cannot  be  made  to  misunderstand  him ;  his  rude  wildness 
crushes,  but  cannot  deceive  her  heart.  She  has  no  answer  to  his 
outbreaks  but 

"  O  help  him,  you  sweet  Heavens !" 

But,  lovely  as  she  was,  and  loved  by  him,  this  love  could  have 
been  only  the  ornament,  not,  in  any  wise,  the  food  of  his  life. 
The  moment  he  is  left  alone,  his  thoughts  revert  to  universal  top 
ics  ;  it  was  the  constitution  of  his  mind,  no  personal  relation  could 
have  availed  it,  except  in  the  way  of  suggestion.  He  could  not 
have  been  absorbed  in  the  present  moment.  Still  it  would  have 
been 

"  Heaven  and  earth ! 
Must  I  remember  1 " 

L.     Have  you  been  reading  the  play  of  late  ? 

A.  Yes ;  hearing  Macready,  one  or  two  points  struck  me 
that  have  not  before,  and  I  was  inclined  to  try  for  my  thousandth 
harvest  from  a  new  study  of  it. 

Macready  gave  its  just  emphasis  to  the  climax — 


DIALOGUE.  161 


« I  '11  call  thee  Hamlet, 
King,  father,  royal  Dane," 

so  unlike  in  its  order  to  what  would  have  been  in  any  other  mind, 
as  also  to  the  two  expressions  in  the  speech  so  delicately  charac 
teristic, 

"  The  glimpses  of  the  moon." 
and 

"  With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls." 
I  think  I  have  in  myself  improved,  that  I  feel  more  than  ever 
what  Macready  does  not,  the  deep  calmness,  always  apparent  be 
neath  the  delicate  variations  of  this  soul's  atmosphere. 

"  The  readiness  is  all." 

This  religion  from  the  very  first  harmonizes  all  these  thrilling 
notes,  and  the  sweet  bells,  even  when  most  jangled  out  of  tune, 
suggest  all  their  silenced  melody. 

From  Hamlet  I  turned  to.  Timon  and  Lear ;  the  transition  was 
natural  yet  surprising,  from  the  indifference  and  sadness  of  the 
heaven-craving  soul  to  the  misanthropy  of  the  disappointed  affec 
tions  and  wounded  trust.  Hamlet  would  well  have  understood 
them  both,  yet  what  a  firmament  of  spheres  lies  between  his 
"  pangs  of  despised  love,"  and  the  anguish  of  Lear. 

"  O  Regan,  Goneril ! 
Your  old  kind  father,  whose  frank  heart  gave  you  all — 

0  that  way  madness  lies,  let  me  shun  that, 
No  more  of  that, 

*  *  *  *  * 
"  I  tax  you  not,  you  elements,  with  unkindness ; 

1  never  gave  you  kingdom,  called  you  children." 

*  *  *  *  * 

It  rends  the  heart  only ;  no  grief  would  be  possible  from  a 
Hamlet,  which  would  not,  at  the  same  time,  exalt  the  soul. 

The  outraged  heart  of  Timon  takes  refuge  at  once  in  action,  in 
curses,  and  bitter  deeds.  It  needs  to  be  relieved  by  the  native 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


baseness  of  Apemantus's  misanthropy,  baseness  of  a  soul  that 
never  knew  how  to  trust,  to  make  it  dignified  in  our  eyes.  Timon, 
estranged  from  men,  could  only  die  ;  yet  the  least  shade  of  wrong 
in  this  heaven-ruled  world  would  have  occasioned  Hamlet  a  deep 
er  pain  than  Timon  was  capable  of  divining.  Yet  Hamlet  could 
not  for  a  moment  have  been  so  deceived  as  to  fancy  man  worth 
less,  because  many  men  were  ;  he  knew  himself  too  well,  to  feel 
the  surprise  of  Timon  when  his  steward  proved  true. 

"  Let  me  behold 

Thy  face. — Surely  this  man  was  born  of  woman. — 
Forgive  my  general  and  exceptless  rashness, 
You  perpetual-sober  gods !     I  do  proclaim 
One  honest  man." 

He  does  not  deserve  a  friend  that  could  draw  higher  inferences 
from  his  story  than  the  steward  does. 

"  Poor  honest  lord,  brought  low  by  his  own  heart, 
Undone  by  goodness !     Strange,,  unusual  blood, 
When  man's  worst  sin  is,  he  does  too  much  good ! 
Who  then  dares  to  be  half  so  kind  again  1 
For  bounty  that  makes  gods,  doth  still  mar  men." 

Timon  tastes  the  dregs  of  the  cup.  He  persuades  himself  that 
he  does  not  believe  even  in  himself. 

"  His  semblable,  even  himself,  Timon  disdains." 
*  *  *  *  * 

"  Who  dares,  who  dares 
In  purity  of  manhood  to  stand  up 
And  say  this  man's  ajlatterer,  if  one  be 
So  are  they  all." 

L.  You  seem  to  have  fixed  your  mind,  of  late,  on  the  subject 
of  misanthropy  ! 

A.  I  own  that  my  thoughts  have  turned  of  late  on  that  low 
form  which  despair  assumes  sometimes  even  with  the  well  dis 
posed.  Yet  see  how  inexcusable  would  it  be  in  any  of  these  be, 
ings.  Hamlet  is  no  misanthrope,  but  he  has  those  excelling  gifts, 


DIALOGUE.  163 


least  likely  to  find  due  response  from  those  around  him.  Yet  he 
is  felt,  almost  in  his  due  sense,  by  two  or  three. 

Lear  has  not  only  one  faithful  daughter,  whom  he  knew  not 
how  to  value,  but  a  friend  beside. 

Timon  is  prized  by  the  only  persons  to  whom  he  was  good, 
purely  from  kindliness  of  nature,  rather  than  the  joy  he  expected 
from  their  gratitude  and  sympathy,  his  servants. 

Tragedy  is  always  a  mistake,  and  the  loneliness  of  the  deepest 
thinker,  the  widest  lover,  ceases  to  be  pathetic  to  us,  so  soon  as 
the  sun  is  high  enough  above  the  mountains. 

Were  I,  despite  the  bright  points  so  numerous  in  their  history 
and  the  admonitions  of  my  own  conscience,  inclined  to  despise 
my  fellow  men,  I  should  have  found  abundant  argument  against 
it  during  this  late  study  of  Hamlet.  In  the  streets,  saloons,  and 
lecture  rooms,  we  continually  hear  comments  so  stupid,  insolent, 
and  shallow  on  great  and  beautiful  works,  that  we  are  tempted  to 
think  that  there  is  no  Public  for  anything  that  is  good  ;  that  a  work 
of  genius  can  appeal  only  to  the  fewest  minds  in  any  one  age, 
and  that  the  reputation  now  awarded  to  those  of  former  times  is 
never  felt,  but  only  traditional.  Of  Shakspeare,  so  vaunted  a 
name,  little  wise  or  worthy  has  been  written,  perhaps  nothing  so 
adequate  as  Coleridge's  comparison  of  him  to  the  Pine-apple  ;  yet 
on  reading  Hamlet,  his  greatest  work,  we  find  there  is  not  a  preg 
nant  sentence,  scarce  a  word  that  men  have  not  appreciated,  have 
not  used  in  myriad  ways.  Had  we  never  read  the  play,  we  should 
find  the  whole  of  it  from  quotation  and  illustration  familiar  to  us 
as  air.  That  exquisite  phraseology,  so  heavy  with  meaning, 
wrought  out  with  such  admirable  minuteness,  has  become  a  part 
of  literary  diction,  the  stock  of  the  literary  bank  ;  and  what  set 
criticism  can  tell  like  this  fact  how  great  was  the  work,  and  that 
men  were  worthy  it  should  be  addressed  to  them  ? 

L.     The  moon  looks  in  to  tell  her  assent.     See,  she  has  just 


164  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

go£  above  that  chimney.  Just  as  this  happy  certainty  has  with 
you  risen  above  the  disgusts  of  the  day. 

A.     She  looks  surprised  as  well  as  complacent. 

L.  She  looks  surprised  to  find  me  still  here.  I  must  say 
good  night.  My  friend,  good  night. 

A.     Good  night,  and  farewell. 

L.     You  look  as  if  it  were  for  some  time. 

A.  That  rests  with  you.  You  will  generally  find  me  here, 
and  always  I  think  like-minded,  if  not  of  the  same  mind. 

An  ancient  sage  had  all  things  deeply  tried, 
And,  as  result,  thus  to  his  friends  he  cried, 

"  O  friends,  there  are  no  friends."     And  to  this  day 
Thus  twofold  moves  the  strange  magnetic  sway, 

Giving  us  love  which  love  must  take  away. 
Let  not  the  soul  for  this  distrust  its  right, 

Knowing  when  changeful  moons  withdraw  their  light, 
Then  myriad  stars,  with  promise  not  less  pure, 

New  loves,  new  lives  to  patient  hopes  assure, 
So  long  as  laws  that  rule  the  spheres  endure. 


WILEY  AND  PUTNAM'S 

LIBRARY  OF 

AMERICAN    BOOKS 


PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE   AND  ART 


PART    II. 


PAPERS 


LITERATURE    AID    ART. 


BY 

S.   MARGARET    FULLER, 

AUTHOR    OF    "A   SUMMER   ON   THE   LAKES;"    "WOMAN   IN   THE   NINETEENTH 
CENTURY,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


PART     II. 


NEW  YORK: 
WILEY  AND  PUTNAM,  161  BROADWAY, 

1846. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

WILEY    AND    PUTNAM, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  ol  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


R.  CRAIQHEAD  S  POWER  PRESS,  T.  B.  SMITH,  STEREOTYPES, 

112  FULTON  STREET.  216  WILLIAM  STREET. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    II. 

TAGE. 

POETS  OF  THE  PEOPLE.  /. 1 

Miss  BARRETT'S  POEMS./ 22 

BROWNING'S  POEMS.  ,-• 31 

LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS:  HAYDN,  MOZART,  HANDEL,  BACH, 

BEETHOVEN.       ...........  4G 

A    RECORD     OF     IMPRRESSIONS     PRODUCED     BY     THE     EXHIBITION     OF    MR. 

ALLSTON'S  PICTURES,  IN  THE  SUMMER  OF  1839 108 

AMERICAN  LITERATURE.            .........  121 

SWEDENBOROIANISM. 160 

METHODISM  AT  THE  FOUNTAIN 166 

APPENDIX. 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  WITCHCRAFT 17T 


PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND  ART, 


POETS    OF    THE    PEOPLE. 

RHYMES   AND   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   A   HAND-LOOM   WEAVER. 

BY  WILLIAM  THOM,  OP  IVERURY. 

"  An'  syne  whan  nichts  grew  cauld  an'  lang, 
Ae  while  he  sicht— ae  while  he  sang." 

Second  Edition,  with  Additions.     London,  1845. 

WE  cannot  give  a  notion  of  the  plan  and  contents  of  this  little 
volume  better  than  by  copying  some  passages  from  the  Preface  : 

"  The  narrative  portion  of  these  pages,"  says  Thorn,  "  is  a  record  of  scenes 
and  circumstances  interwoven  with  my  experience — with  my  destiny.  *  *  The 
feelings  and  fancies,  the  pleasure  and  the  pain  that  hovered  about  my  aimless 
existence  were  all  my  own — my  property.  These  aerial  investments  I  held 
and  fashioned  into  measured  verse.  *  *  The  self-portraiture  herein  attempted 
is  not  altogether  Egotism  neither,  inasmuch  as  the  main  lineaments  of  the  sketch 
are  to  be  found  in  the  separate  histories  of  a  thousand  families  in  Scotland 
within  these  last  ten  years.  That  fact,  however,  being  contemplated  in  mass, 
and  in  reference  to  its  bulk  only,  acts  more  on  the  wonder  than  on  the  pity  of 
mankind,  as  if  human  sympathies,  like  the  human  eye,  could  not  compass  an 
object  exceedingly  large,  and,  at  the  same  time,  exceedingly  near.  It  is  no 
small  share  in  the  end  and  aim  of  the  present  little  work,  to  impart  to  one  por 
tion  of  the  community  a  glimpse  of  what  is  sometimes  going  on  in  another;  and 
even  if  only  that  is  accomplished,  some  good  service  will  be  done.  I  have  long 
had  a  notion  that  many  of  the  heart-burnings  that  run  through  the  SOCIAL 
WHOLE  spring  not  so  much  from  the  distinctiveness  of  classes  as  their  mutual 
ignorance  of  each  other.  The  miserably  rich  look  upon  the  miserably  poor 
with  distrust  and  dread,  scarcely  giving  them  credit  for  sensibility  sufficient  to 
feel  their  own  sorrows.  That  is  ignorance  with  its  gilded  side.  The  poor,  in 
PART  II.  1 


PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


turn  foster  a  hatred  of  the  wealthy  as  a  sole  inheritance — look  on  grandeur  as 
their  natural  enemy,  and  bend  to  the  rich  man's  rule  in  gall  and  bleeding  scorn. 
Shallows  on  the  one  side  and  Demagogues  on  the  other,  are  the  portions  that 
come  oftenest  into  contact.  These  are  the  luckless  things  that  skirt  the  great 
divisions,  exchanging  all  that  is  offensive  therein.  'MAN  KNOW  THYSELF/ 
should  be  written  on  the  right  hand ;  on  the  left,  '  Men,  know  EACH  OTHER.'  " 

In  this  book,  the  recollections  are  introduced  for  the  sake  of 
the  "  Rhymes,"  and  in  the  same  relationship  as  parent  and  child, 
one  the  offspring  of  the  other ;  and  in  that  association  alone  can 
they  be  interesting.  "  I  write  no  more  in  either  than  what  I 
knew — and  not  all  of  that — so  Feeling  has  left  Fancy  little  to 
do  in  the  matter." 

/  There  are  two  ways  of  considering  Poems,  or  the  products  of 
literature  in  general.  We  may  tolerate  only  what  is  excellent, 
and  demand  that  whatever  is  consigned  to  print  for  the  benefit  of 
the  human  race  should  exhibit  fruits  perfect  in  shape,  colour,  and 
flavour,  enclosing  kernels  of  permanent  value. 

Those  who  demand  this  will  be  content  only  with  the  Iliads 
and  Odysseys  of  the  mind's  endeavour. — They  can  feed  no 
where  but  at  rich  men's  tables  ;  in  the  wildest  recess  of  nature 
roots  and  berries  will  not  content  them.  They  say,  "  If  you  can 
thus  satiate  your  appetite  it  is  degrading  ;  we,  the  highly  re 
fined  in  taste  and  the  tissue  of  the  mind,  can  nowhere  be  ap 
peased,  unless  by  golden  apples,  served  up  on  silver  dishes." 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  literature  may  be  regarded  as  the  great 
mutual  system  of  interpretation  between  all  kinds  and  classes  of 
men.  It  is  an  epistolary  correspondence  between  brethren  of  one 
family,  subject  to  many  and  wide  separations,  and  anxious  to  re 
main  in  spiritual  presence  one  of  another.  These  letters  may 
be  written  by  the  prisoner  in  soot  and  water,  illustrated  by  rude 
sketches  in  charcoal ; — by  nature's  nobleman,  free  to  use  his  in 
heritance,  in  letters  of  gold,  with  the  fair  margin  filled  with  ex 
quisite  miniatures  ; — to  the  true  man  each  will  have  value,  first, 


POETS  OP   THE  PEOPLE. 


in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  its  revelation  as  to  the  life  of  the 
human  soul,  second,  in  proportion  to  the  perfection  of  form  in 
which  that  revelation  is  expressed. 

In  like  manner  are  there  two  modes  of  criticism.  One  which 
tries,  by  the  highest  standard  of  literary  perfection  the  critic  is 
capable  of  conceiving,  each  work  which  comes  in  his  way  j  re 
jecting  all  that  it  is  possible  to  reject,  and  reserving  for  toleration 
only  what  is  capable  of  standing  the  severest  test.  It  crushes  to 
earth  without  mercy  all  the  humble  buds  of  Phantasy,  all  the 
plants  that,  though  green  and  fruitful,  are  also  a  prey  to  insects, 
or  have  suffered  by  drouth.  It  weeds  well  the  garden,  and  can 
not  believe,  that  the  weed  in  its  native  soil,  may  be  a  pretty,  grace 
ful  plant. 

There  is  another  mode  which  enters  into  the  natural  history  of 
every  thing  that  breathes  and  lives,  which  believes  no  impulse  to 
be  entirely  in  vain,  which  scrutinizes  circumstances,  motive  and 
object  before  it  condemns,  and  believes  there  is  a  beauty  in  each 
natural  form,  if  its  law  and  purpose  be  understood.  It  does  not 
consider  a  literature  merely  as  the  garden  of  the  nation,  but  as 
the  growth  of  the  entire  region,  with  all  its  variety  of  mountain, 
forest,  pasture,  and  tillage  lands.  Those  who  observe  in  this 
spirit  will  often  experience,  from  some  humble  offering  to  the 
Muses,  the  delight  felt  by  the  naturalist  in  the  grasses  and  lichens 
of  some  otherwise  barren  spot.  These  are  the  earliest  and  hum 
blest  efforts  of  nature,  but  to  a  discerning  eye  they  indicate  the 
entire  range  of  her  energies. 

These  two  schools  have  each  their  dangers.  The  first  tends 
to  hypercriticism  and  pedantry,  to  a  cold  restriction  on  the  un 
studied  action  of  a  large  and  flowing  life.  In  demanding  that 
the  stream  should  always  flow  transparent  over  golden  sands, 
it  tends  to  repress  its  careless  majesty,  its  vigour,  and  its  ferti 
lizing  power. 

The  other  shares  the  usual  perils  of  the  genial  and  affectionate ; 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


it  tends  to  indiscriminate  indulgence  and  a  leveling  of  the 
beautiful  with  what  is  merely  tolerable.  For  indeed  the  vines 
need  judicious  pruning  if  they  are  to  bring  us  the  ruby  wine. 

In  the  golden  age  to  which  we  are  ever  looking  forward,  these 
two  tendencies  will  be  harmonized.  The  highest  sense  of  ful 
filled  excellence  will  be  found  to  consist  with  the  largest  appre 
ciation  of  every  sign  of  life.  The  eye  of  man  is  fitted  to  range 
all  around  no  less  than  to  be  lifted  on  high. 

Meanwhile  the  spirit  of  the  time,  which  is  certainly  seeking, 
though  by  many  and  strange  ways,  the  greatest  happiness  for  the 
greatest  number,  by  discoveries  which  facilitate  mental  no  less 
than  bodily  communication,  till  soon  it  will  be  almost  as  easy  to 
get  your  thought  printed  or  engraved  on  a  thousand  leaves  as  to 
drop  it  from  the  pen  on  one,  and  by  the  simultaneous  bubbling  up 
of  rills  of  thought  in  a  thousand  hitnerto  obscure  and  silent 
places,  declares  that  the  genial  and  generous  tendency  shall  have 
the  lead,  at  least  for  the  present. 

We  are  not  ourselves  at  all  concerned,  lest  excellent  expres 
sion  should  cease  because  the  power  of  speech  to  some  extent 
becomes  more  general.  The  larger  the  wave  and  the  more  fish 
it  sweeps  along,  the  likelier  that  some  fine  ones  should  enrich  the 
net.  It  has  always  been  so.  The  great  efforts  of  art  belong  to 
artistic  regions,  where  the  boys  in  the  street  draw  sketches  on  the 
wall  and  torment  melodies  on  rude  flutes  ;  shoals  of  sonneteers 
follow  in  the  wake  of  the  great  poet.  The  electricity  which 
flashes  with  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove  must  first  pervade  the  whole 
atmosphere. 

How  glad  then  are  we  to  see  that  such  men  as  Prince  and 
Thorn,  if  they  are  forced  by  <  poortith  cauld'  to  sigh  much  in  the 
long  winter  night,  which  brings  them  neither  work  nor  pleasure, 
can  also  sing  between. 

Thorn  passed  his  boyhood  in  a  factory,  where,  beside  the  disad 
vantage  of  ceaseless  toil  and  din,  he  describes  himself  as  being 


POETS  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 


under  the  worst  moral  influences.  These,  however,  had  no 
power  to  corrupt  his  native  goodness  and  sweetness.  One  of  the 
most  remarkable  things  about  him  is  his  disposition  to  look  on  the 
bright  side,  and  the  light  and  gentle  playfulness  with  which  he 
enlivened,  when  possible,  the  darkest  pages  of  his  life. 

The  only  teachers  that  found  access  to  the  Factory  were  some 
works  of  contemporary  poets.  These  were  great  contemporaries 
for  him.  Scott,  Byron,  Moore,  breathed  full  enough  to  fan  a 
good  blaze. — But  still  more  important  to  the  Scotsman  and  the 
craftsman  were  the  teachings  of  those  commemorated  in  the  fol 
lowing  passage  which  describes  the  first  introduction  of  them  to 
the  literary  world,  and  gives  no  unfair  specimen  both  of  his  prose 
and  his  poetry  : 

"Nearer  and  dearer  to  hearts  like  ours  was  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  then  in  his 
full  tide  of  song  and  story ;  but  nearer  and  dearer  still  than  he,  or  any  living 
songster — to  us  dearer — was  our  ill-fated  fellow-craftsman,  Tannahill,  who  had 
just  then  taken  himself  from  a  neglecting  world,  while  yet  that  world  waxed 
mellow  in  his  lay.  Poor  weaver  chiel !  What  we  owe  to  thee !  Your  "  Braes 
o'  Balquidder,"  and  "Yon  Burnside,"  and  "  Gloomy  Winter,"  and  the  "Min 
strel's"  wailing  ditty,  and  the  noble  "  Gleneifer."  Oh!  how  they  did  ring  above 
the  rattling  of  a  hundred  shuttles!  Let  me  again  proclaim  the  debt  we  owe 
those  Song  Spirits,  as  they  walked  in  melody  from  loom  to  loom,  ministering  to 
the  low-hearted  ;  and  when  the  breast  was  filled  with  everything  but  hope  and 
happiness,  and  all  but  seared,  let  only  break  forth  the  healthy  and  vigorous 
chorus  "  A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that,"  the  fagged  weaver  brightens  up.  His  very 
shuttle  skytes  boldly  along,  and  clatters  through  in  faithful  time  to  the  tune  of 
his  merrier  shopmates ! 

"  Who  dare  measure  in  doubt  the  restraining  influences  of  these  very  Songs  7 
To  us  they  were  all  instead  of  sermons.  Had  one  of  us  been  bold  enough  to 
enter  a  church  he  must  have  been  ejected  for  the  sake  of  decency.  "  His  forlorn 
and  curiously  patched  habiliments  would  have  contested  the  point  of  attraction 
with  the  ordinary  eloquence  of  that  period.  So  for  all  parties  it  was  better  that 
he  kept  to  his  garret,  or  wandered  far  "  in  the  deep  green  wood."  Church  bells 
rang  not  for  us.  Poets  were  indeed  our  Priests.  But  for  those,  the  last  relic  of 
our  moral  existence  would  have  surely  passed  away  ! 

"  Song  was  the  dew-drops  that  gathered  during  the  long  dark  night  of  despon- 


6  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

dency,  and  were  sure  to  glitter  in  the  very  first  blink  of  the  sun.  *  *  *  * 
To  us  Virtue,  in  whatever  shape,  came  only  in  shadow,  but  even  by  that  we 
saw  her  sweet  proportions,  and  sometimes  fain  would  have  sought  a  kind  ac 
quaintance  with  her. — Thinking  that  the  better  features  of  humanity  could  not 
be  utterly  defaced  where  song  and  melody  were  permitted  to  exist,  and  that 
where  they  were  not  all  crushed,  Hope  and  Mercy  might  yet  bless  the  spot,  some 
waxed  bold,  and  for  a  time  took  leave  of  those  who  were  called  to  "sing  ayont 
the  moon,"  groping  amidst  the  material  around  and  stringing  it  up,  ventured  on 
a  home-made  lilt. — Short  was  the  search  to  find  a  newly  kindled  love,  or  some 
old  heart  abreaking.  Such  was  aye  amongst  us  and  not  always  unnoticed,  nor 
as  ye  shall  see,  unsung. 

"  It  was  not  enough  that  we  merely  chaunted,  and  listened ;  but  some  more 
ambitious,  or  idle  if  ye  will,  they  in  time  would  try  a  self-conceived  song.  Just 
as  if  some  funny  little  boy,  bolder  than  the  rest,  would  creep  into  the  room  where 
laid  Neil  Gow's  fiddle,  and  touch  a  note  or  two  he  could  not  name.  How  proud 
he  is!  how  blest!  for  he  had  made  a  sound,  and  more,  his  playmates  heard  it, 
faith !  Here  I  will  introduce  one  of  these  early  touches,  not  for  any  merit  of  its 
own,  but  it  will  show  that  we  could  sometimes  bear  and  even  seek  for  our 
minds  a  short  residence,  though  not  elegant  at  least  sinless, — a  fleeting  visit 
of  healthy  things,  though  small  they  were  in  size  and  few  in  number.  Spray 
from  a  gushing  "linn,"  if  it  slackened  not  the  thirst,  it  cooled  the  brow. 

"The  following  ditty  had  its  foundation  in  one  of  those  luckless  doings  which 
ever  and  aye  follow  misguided  attachments ;  and  in  our  abode  of  freedom  these 
were  almost  the  only  kind  of  attachments  known  ;  so  they  were  all  on  the 
wrong  side  of  durability  or  happiness. 

AIR — "  L/ass,  gin  you  lo'e  me,  tell  me  noo." 

We'll  meet  in  yon  wood,  'neath  a  starless  sky, 
When  wrestling  leaves  forsake  ilk  tree ; 

We  mauna  speak  mair  o'  the  days  gane  by, 
Nor  o'  friends  that  again  we  never  maun  see : 
Nae  weak  word  o'  mine  shall  remembrance  gie 
O'  vows  that  were  made  and  were  broken  to  me : 

I'll  seem  in  my  silence  to  reckon  them  dead, 

A'  wither'd  and  lost  as  the  leaves  that  we  tread. 

Alane  ye  maun  meet  me,  when  midnight  is  near, 
By  yon  blighted  auld  bush  that  we  fatally  ken ; 

The  voice  that  allured  me,  O !  let  me  nae  hear, 
For  my  heart  mauna  beat  to  its  music  again. 


POETS   OF  THE   PEOPLE. 


In  darkness  we'll  meet,  and  in  silence  remain,' 
Ilk  word  now  and  look  now,  were  mockful  or  vain; 
Ae  mute  moment  morne  the  dream  that  misled, 
Syne  sinder  as  cauld  as  the  leaves  that  we  tread, 

"  This  ditty  was  sung  in  the  weaving  shops,  and  when  in  the  warbling  of 
one  who  could  lend  a  good  voice  to  the  occasion,  and  could  coax  the  words  and 
air  into  a  sort  of  social  understanding,  then  was  it  a  song." 

Thorn  had  no  furtherance  for  many  years  after  this  first  ap 
pearance.  It  was  hard  work  at  all  times  to  win  bread  ;  when 
work  failed  he  was  obliged  to  wander  on  foot  elsewhere  to  pro 
cure  it,  losing  his  youngest  child  in  a  barn  from  the  hardships 
endured  one  cold  night  of  this  untimely  "flitting;"  his  admira 
ble  wife  too  died  prematurely  from  the  same  cause.  At  one  time 
he  was  obliged  to  go  with  his  little  daughter  and  his  flute,  (on 
which  he  is  an  excellent  performer,)  into  the  streets  as  a  mendi 
cant,  to  procure  bread  for  his  family.  This  last  seems  to  have 
been  far  more  cruel  than  any  hardship  to  the  honest  pride  native 
to  the  Scotchman.  But  there  is  another  side.  Like  Prince,  he 
was  happy,  as  men  in  a  rank  more  favoured  by  fortune  seldom 
are,  in  his  choice  of  a  wife.  He  had  an  equal  friend,  a  refined 
love,  a  brave,  gentle,  and  uncomplaining  companion  in  every  sor 
row,  and  wrote  from  his  own  experience  the  following  lines  : 

THEY  SPEAK  O'  WYLES. 

AIR "  Gin  a  bodic  meet  a  bodie." 

They  speak  o'  wyles  in  woman's  smiles, 

An'  ruin  in  her  e'e — 
I  ken  they  bring  a  pang  at  whiles 

That's  unco  sair  to  dree ; 
But  mind  ye  this,  the  half-ta'en  kiss, 

The  first  fond  fa'in'  tear, 
Is,  Heaven  kens,  fu'  sweet  amends 

An'  tints  o'  heaven  here. 


PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


When  twa  leal  hearts  in  fondness  meet, 

Life's  tempests  howl  in  vain— 
The  very  tears  o'  love  are  sweet 

When  paid  with  tears  again. 
Shall  sapless  prudence  shake  its  pow, 

Shall  cauldrife  caution  fear  1 
Oh,  dinna,  dinna  droun  the  lowe 

That  lichts  a  heaven  here ! 

He  was  equally  happy  in  his  children,  though  the  motherless 
bairns  had  to  be  sent,  the  little  girl  to  tend  cows,  the  darling  boy 
to  a  hospital  (where  his  being  subjected,  when  alone,  to  a  surgi 
cal  operation,  is  the  occasion  of  one  of  the  poor  Poet's  most 
touching  strains.)  They  were  indeed  his  children  in  love  and 
sympathy,  the  source  of  thought  and  joy,  such  as  is  never  known 
to  the  rich  man  who  gives  up  for  banks  and  ships  all  the  immor 
tal  riches  domestic  joys  might  bring  him,  leaving  his  children 
first  to  the  nursery-maid,  then  to  hired  masters,  and  last  to  the 
embrace  of  a  corrupt  world.  He  was  also  most  happy  in  his 
"  aerial  investments,"  and  like  Prince,  so  fortunate,  midway  in 
life  before  his  power  of  resistance  was  exhausted,  and  those  bit 
terest  of  all  bitter  words  Too  LATE,  stamped  upon  his  brow,  as  to 
secure  the  enlightened  assistance  of  one  generous  journal,  the 
timely  assistance  of  one  generous  friend,  which,  though  little  in 
money,  was  large  in  results.  So  Thorn  is  far  from  an  unfortu 
nate  man,  though  the  portrait  which  we  find  in  his  book  is  marked 
with  wrinkles  of  such  premature  depth.  Indeed  he  declares  that 
while  work  was  plenty  and  his  wife  with  him,  he  was  blest  for 
"nine  years  with  such  happiness  as  rarely  falls  to  the  lot  of  a 
human  being." 

Thorn  has  a  poetical  mind,  rather  than  is  a  poet.  He  has  a 
delicate  perception  of  relations,  and  is  more  a  poet  in  discerning 
good  occasions  for  poems  than  in  using  them.  Accordingly  his 
prefaces  to,  or  notes  upon,  his  verses,  are  often,  as  was  the  case 
with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  far  more  poetical  than  the  verses  them- 


POETS  AND  THE  PEOPLE.  9 

selves.     This  is  the  case  as  to  those  which  followed  this  little 
sketch  : 

"For  a  period  of  seventeen  years,  I  was  employed  in  a  great  weaving  factory 
in  Aberdeen.  It  contained  upwards  of  three  hundred  looms,  worked  by  as 
many  male  and  female  weavers.  'Twas  a  sad  place,  indeed,  and  many  a  curi 
osity  sort  of  man  and  woman  entered  that  blue  gate.  Amongst  the  rest,  that 
little  sly  fellow  Cupid  would  steal  past '  Willie,  the  porter'  (who  never  dreamed 
of  such  a  being) — steal  in  amongst  us,  and  make  a  very  harvest  of  it.  Upon 
the  remembrance  of  one  of  his  rather  grave  doings,  the  song  of  Mary'  is  com 
posed.  One  of  our  shopmates,  a  virtuous  young  woman,  fairly  though  uncon 
sciously,  carried  away  the  whole  bulk  and  value  of  a  poor  weaver's  heart.  He 
became  restless  and  miserable,  but  could  never  muster  spirit  to  speak  his  flame. 
"  He  never  told  his  love" — yes,  he  told  it  to  me.  At  his  request,  I  told  it  to 
Mary,  and  she  laughed.  Five  weeks  passed  away,  and  I  saw  him  to  the  church 
yard.  For  many  days  ere  he  died,  Mary  watched  by  his  bedside,  a  sorrowful 
woman,  indeed.  Never  did  widow's  tears  fall  more  burningly.  It  is  twenty 
years  since  then.  She  is  now  a  wife  and  a  mother;  but  the  remembrance  of 
that,  their  last  meeting,  still  haunts  her  sensitive*  nature,  as  if  she  had  done  a 
deed  of  blood." 

The  charming  little  description  of  one  of  the  rural  academies 
known  by  the  name  of  a  "  Wifie's  Squeel,"  we  reserve  to  reprint 
in  another  connexion. — As  we  are  overstepping  all  limits,  we 
shall  give,  in  place  of  farther  comments,  three  specimens  of  how 
the  Muse  sings  while  she  throws  a  shuttle.  They  are  all  inter 
esting  in  different  ways.  "  One  of  the  Heart's  Struggles"  is  a 
faithful  transcript  of  the  refined  feelings  of  the  craftsman,  how- 
opposite  to  the  vulgar  selfishness  which  so  often  profanes  the 
name  of  Love !  "  A  Chieftain  Unknown  to  the  Queen,"  ex 
presses  many  thoughts  that  arose  in  our  own  mind  as  we  used  to 
read  the  bulletins  of  the  Royal  Progress  through  Scotland  so 
carefully  transferred  to  the  columns  of  American  journals. 
"  Whisper  Low"  is  perhaps  the  best  specimen  of  song  as  song, 
to  be  found  in  this  volume. 

1* 


10  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


PRINCE'S  POEMS. 

BY  signs  too  numerous  to  be  counted,  yet  some  of  them  made 
fruitful  by  specification,  the  Spirit  of  the  Age  announces  that  she 
is  slowly,  toilsomely,  but  surely,  working  that  revolution,  whose 
mighty  deluge  rolling  back,  shall  leave  a  new  aspect  smiling  on 
earth  to  greet  the  *  most  ancient  heavens.'  The  wave  rolls  for 
ward  slowly,  and  may  be  as  long  in  retreating,  but  when  it  has 
retired  into  the  eternal  deep,  it  will  leave  behind  it  a  refreshed 
world,  in  which  there  may  still  be  many  low  and  mean  men,  but 
TIO  lower  classes  ;  for  it  will  be  understood  that  it  is  the  glory  of 
a  man  to  labour,  and  that  all  kinds  of  labour  have  their  poetry,  and 
that  there  is  really  no  more  a  lower  and  higher  among  the  world 
of  men  with  their  various  spheres,  than  in  the  world  of  stars.  All 
kinds  of  labour  are  equally  honorable,  if  the  mind  of  the  labourer 
be  only  open  so  to  understand  them.  But  as 

"  The  glory  'tis  of  Man's  estate,— 

For  this  his  dower  did  he  receive, 
That  he  in  mind  should  contemplate 
What  with  his  hands  he  doth  achieve." 
*  *  *  *  * 

"  Observe  we  sharply,  then,  what  vantage, 
From  conflux  of  weak  efforts  springs ; 
He  turns  his  craft  to  small  advantage 
Who  knows  not  what  to  light  it  brings." 

It  is  this  that  has  made  the  difference  of  high  and  low,  that  cer 
tain  occupations  were  supposed  to  have  a  better  influence  in  lib 
eralizing  and  refining  the  higher  faculties  than  others.  Now,  the 
tables  are  turning.  The  inferences  and  impressions  to  be  gained 
from  the  pursuits  that  have  ranked  highest  are,  for  the  present, 
exhausted.  They  have  been  written  about,  prated  about,  till  they 
have  had  their  day,  and  need  to  lie  in  the  shadow  and  recruit  their 
energies  through  silence.  The  mind  of  the  time  has  detected  the 


POETS  OF  THE  PEOPLE.  H 

truth  that  as  there  is  nothing,  the  least,  effected  in  this  universe, 
which  does  not  somehow  represent  the  whole,  which  it  is  again 
the  whole  scope  and  effort  of  human  Intelligence  to  do,  no  deed, 
no  pursuit  can  fail,  if  the  mind  be  l  divinely  intended'  upon  it,  to 
communicate  divine  knowledge.  Thus  it  is  seen  that  all  a  man 
needs  for  his  education  is  to  take  whatsoever  lies  in  his  way  to  do, 
and  do  it  with  his  might,  and  think  about  it  with  his  might,  too  ;  for 

"  He  turns  his  craft  to  small  advantage, 
Who  knows  not  what  to  light  it  brings." 

And,  as  a  mark  of  this  diffusion  of  the  true,  the  poetic,  the  phi 
losophic  education,  we  greet  the  emergence  more  and  more  of  poets 
from  the  working  classes — men  who  not  only  have  poet  hearts 
and  eyes,  but  use  them  to  write  and  print  verses. 

Beranger,  the  man  of  the  people,  is  the  greatest  poet,  and,  in 
fact,  the  greatest  literary  genius  of  modern  France.  In  other 
nations  if  "  the  lower  classes"  have  not  such  an  one  to  boast,  they 
at  least  have  many  buds  and  shoots  of  new  talent.  Not  to  speak  of 
the  patronized  ploughboys  and  detected  merits,  they  have  now  an 
order,  constantly  increasing,  able  to  live  by  the  day  labor  of  that 
good  right  hand  which  wields  the  pen  at  night  ;  with  aims, 
thoughts,  feelings  of  their  own,  neither  borrowing  from  nor  as 
piring  to  the  region  of  the  Rich  and  Great.  Elliott,  Nicol,  Prince, 
and  Thorn  find  enough  in  the  hedge-rows  that  border  their  every 
day  path  ; — they  need  not  steal  an  entrance  to  padlocked  flower- 
gardens,  nor  orchards  guarded  by  man-traps  and  spring-guns. 

Of  three  of  these  it  may  be  said,  they 

"  Were  cradled  into  Poesy  by  Wrong, 
And  learnt  in  Suffering  what  they  taught  in  Song." 

But  of  the  fourth — Prince,  we  mean — though  he  indeed  suffered 
enough  of  the  severest  hardships  of  work-day  life,  the  extreme 
hardships  of  life  when  work  could  not  be  got,  yet  he  was  no  flint 
that  needed  such  hard  blows  to  strike  out  the  fire,  but  an  easily 


12  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

bubbling  naphtha-spring  that  would  have  burned  much  the  same, 
through  whatever  soil  it  had  reached  the  open  air. 

He  was  born  of  the  poorest  laboring  people,  taught  to  read  and 
write  imperfectly  only  by  means  of  the  Sunday  Schools,  discour 
aged  in  any  taste  for  books  by  his  father  lest  his  time,  if  any  por 
tion  were  that  way  bestowed,  should  not  suffice  to  win  his  bread, — 
with  no  friends  of  the  mind,  in  youthful  years,  except  a  volume 
of  Byron,  and  an  old  German  who  loved  to  tell  stories  of  his  na 
tive  land  ; — married  at  nineteen,  in  the  hope  of  mingling  some 
solace  with  his  cup  ;  plunged  by  the  birth  of  children  into  deeper 
want,  going  forth  to  foreign  lands  a  beggar  in  search  of  employ 
ment,  returning  to  his  own  country  to  be  received  as  a  pauper, 
having  won  nothing  but  mental  treasure  which  no  man  wished  to 
buy ;  he  found  his  wife  and  children  in  the  workhouse,  and 
took  them  thence  home  to  lie  with  him  on  straw  in  an  unfurnished 
garret.  Thus  passed  the  first  half  of  the  span  allotted  on  earth 
to  one  made  in  God's  image.  And  during  those  years  Prince 
constantly  wrote  into  verse  how  such  things  struck  him.  But 
we  cannot  say  that  his  human  experiences  were  deep  ;  for  all 
these  things,  that  would  have  tortured  other  men,  only  pained  him 
superficially.  Into  the  soul  of  Elliott,  the  iron  has  entered  ;  the 
lightest  song  of  Beranger  echoes  to  a  melancholy  sense  of  the  de 
fects  of  this  world  with  its  Tantalus  destinies,  a  melancholy  which 
touches  it  at  times  with  celestial  pathos.  But  life  has  made  but 
little  impression  on  Prince.  Endowed  by  Nature  with  great  pu 
rity  of  instincts,  a  healthy  vigor  of  feeling  more  than  of  thought, 
he  sees,  and  expresses  in  all  his  works,  the  happiness  natural  to 
Man.  He  sees  him  growing,  gently,  gradually,  with  no  more  of 
struggle  and  labour  than  is  wanted  to  develope  his  manly  strength, 
learning  his  best  self  from  the  precious  teachings  of  domestic  af 
fections,  fully  and  intelligently  the  son,  the  lover,  the  husband, 
the  father.  He  sees  him  walking  amid  the  infinite  fair  shows  of 
Nature,  kingly,  yet  companionable,  too.  He  sees  him  offering  to 


POETS  OF  THE  PEOPLE.  13 

his  God  no  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears,  whether  others'  or  his 
own,  but  the  incense  of  a  grateful  and  obedient  heart,  ever  ready 
for  love  and  good  works. 

It  is  this  childishness,  rather  this  virginity  of  soul,  that  makes 
Prince's  poems  remarkable.  He  has  no  high  poetic  power,  not 
even  a  marked  individuality  of  expression.  There  are  no  lines, 
verses,  or  images  that  strike  by  themselves  ;  neither  human  nor 
external  nature  are  described  so  as  to  make  the  mind  of  the  poet 
foster-father  to  its  subject.  The  poems  are  only  easy  expression 
of  the  common  mood  of  a  healthy  mind  and  tender  heart,  which 
needs  to  vent  itself  in  words  and  metres.  Every  body  should  be 
able  to  write  as  good  verse, — every  body  has  the  same  simple, 
substantial  things  to  put  into  it.  On  such  a  general  basis  the  high 
constructive  faculty,  the  imagination,  might  rear  her  palaces,  un 
afraid  of  ruin  from  war  or  time. 

This  being  the  case  with  Prince,  we  shall  not  make  detailed  re 
marks  upon  his  poerns,  but  merely  substantiate^  what  we  have  said 
by  some  extracts. 

1st.  We  give  the  description  of  his  Journey  and  Return.  This, 
to  us,  presents  a  delightful  picture  ;  the  man  is  so  sufficient  to 
himself  and  his  own  improvement ;  so  unconquerably  sweet  and 
happy. 

2d.  The  poem  <  Land  and  Sea,'  as  giving  a  true  presentment 
of  the  riches  of  this  poor  man. 

3d.  A  poem  to  his  Child,  showing  how  a  pure  and  refined  sense 
of  the  beauty  and  value  of  these  relations,  often  unknown  in  pal 
aces,  may  make  a  temple  of  an  unfurnished  garret. 

4th.  In  an  extract  from  '  A  Vision  of  the  Future,'  a  presenta 
tion  of  the  life  fit  for  man,  as  seen  by  a  'reed-maker  for  weavers;' 
such  as  we  doubt  Mrs.  Norton's  Child  of  the  Islands  would  not 
have  vigor  and  purity  of  mental  sense  even  to  sympathize  with, 
when  conceived,  far  less  to  conceive. 

These  extracts  speak  for  themselves  ;  they  show  the  stream  of 


14  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

the  poet's  mind  to  be  as  clear  as  if  it  had  flowed  over  the  sands 
of  Pactolus.  But  most  waters  show  the  color  of  the  soil  through 
which  they  had  to  force  their  passage  ;  this  is  the  case  with  Elli 
ott,  and  with  Thorn,  of  whose  writings  we  shall  soon  give  some 
notice. 

Prince  is  an  unique,  as  we  sometimes  find  a  noble  Bayard,  born 
of  a  worldly  statesman — a  sweet  shepherdess  or  nun,  of  a  heart 
less  woman  of  fashion.  Such  characters  are  the  direct  gift  of 
Heaven,  and  symbolize  nothing  in  what  is  now  called  Society. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  ISLANDS:  By  the  Hon.  Mrs.  NORTON.     London: 

Chapman  and  Hull.     1845. 
HOURS   WITH  THE  MUSES:   By  JOHN  CRITCHLEY  PRINCE.     Second 

Edition.     London .  Simpkin,  Marshall  &  Co.     1841 . 

THE  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton  and  Prince,  "  a  reed-maker  for  weav 
ers,"  meet  upon  a  common  theme — the  existing  miseries  and  pos 
sible  relief  of  that  nutst  wretched  body,  England's  poor  :  most 
wretched  of  the  world's  sufferers  in  being  worse  mocked  by  pre 
tensions  of  freedom  and  glory,  most  wretched  in  having  minds 
more  awakened  to  feel  their  wretchedness. 

Mrs.  Norton  and  Prince  meet  on  the  same  ground,  but  in 
strongly  contrasted  garb  and  expression,  as  might  be  expected 
from  the  opposite  quarters  from  which  they  come.  Prince  takes 
this  truly  noble  motto  : 

"  Knowledge  and  Truth  and  Virtue  were  his  theme, 
And  lofty  hopes  of  Liberty  divine." — Slielley. 

Mrs.  Norton  prefaces  a  poem  on  a  subject  of  such  sorrowful 
earnestness,  and  in  which  she  calls  the  future  sovereign  of  a 
groaning  land  to  thought  upon  his  duties,  with  this  weak  wish 
couched  in  the  verse  of  Moore  : 


POETS   OP  THE  PEOPLE.  16 

"As,  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun, 

This  world  along  its  course  advances, 
May  that  side  the  sun's  upon 
Be  all  that  shall  ever  meet  thy  glances." 

Thus  unconsciously  showing  her  state  of  mind.  It  is  a  very  dif 
ferent  wish  that  a  good  friend,  '  let  alone'  a  good  angel,  would 
proffer  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  at  this  moment.  Shame  indeed 
will  it  be  for  him  if  he  does  wish  to  stand  in  the  sun,  while  the 
millions  that  he  ought  to  spend  all  his  blood  to  benefit  are  shiver 
ing  in  the  cold  and  dark.  The  position  of  the  heirs  of  fortune 
in  that  country,  under  present  circumstances,  is  one  of  dread, 
which  to  a  noble  soul  would  bring  almost  the  anguish  of  cruci 
fixion.  How  can  they  enjoy  one  moment  in  peace  the  benefit  of 
their  possessions  ?  And  how  can  they  give  them  up,  and  be  sure 
it  will  be  any  benefit  to  others  ?  The  causes  of  ill  seem  so 
deeply  rooted  in  the  public  economy  of  England,  that,  if  all  her 
rich  men  were  to  sell  all  they  have  and  give  to  the  poor,  it  would 
yield  but  a  temporary  relief.  Yea  !  all  those  heaped-up  gems, 
the  Court  array  of  England's  beauty  ;  the  immense  treasures  of 
art,  enough  to  arouse  old  Greece  from  her  grave  ;  the  stately 
parks,  full  of  dewy  glades  and  bosky  dells,  haunted  by  the 
stately  deer  and  still  more  thickly  by  exquisite  memories  ;  the 
enormous  wealth  of  episcopal  palaces,  might  all  be  given  up  for 
the  good  of  the  people  at  large,  and  not  relieve  their  sufferings 
ten  years.  It  is  not  merely  that  sense  of  right  usually  dignified 
by  the  name  of  generosity  that  is  wanted,  but  wisdom — a  deeper 
wisdom  by  far  as  to  the  conduct  of  national  affairs  than  the  world 
has  ever  yet  known.  It  is  not  enough  now  for  prince  or  noble  to 
be  awakened  to  good  dispositions.  Let  him  not  hope  at  once  to 
be  able  to  do  good  with  the  best  dispositions;  things  have  got  too 
far  from  health  and  simplicity  for  that;  the  return  must  be  te 
dious,  and  whoever  sets  out  on  that  path  must  resign  himself  to 
be  a  patient  student,  with  a  painfully  studying  world  for  his  com- 


16  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

panion.  In  work  he  can  for  a  long  time  hope  no  shining  results ; 
the  miners  dig  in  the  dark  as  yet  for  the  ransom  of  the  suffering 
million. 

Hard  is  the  problem  for  the  whole  civilized  world  at  present, 
hard  for  bankrupt  Europe,  hard  for  endangered  America.  We 
say  bankrupt  Europe,  for  surely  nations  are  so  who  have  not 
known  how  to  secure  peace,  education,  or  even  bodily  sustenance 
for  the  people  at  large.  The  lightest  lore  of  fairy  tale  is  wise 
enough  to  show  that  such  nations  must  be  considered  bankrupt, 
notwithstanding  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  the  development  of 
resources,  the  prodigies  of  genius  and  science  they  have  to  boast. 
Some  successes  have  been  achieved,  but  at  what  a  price  of  blood 
and  tears,  of  error  and  of  crime ! 

And,  in  this  hard  school-time,  hardest  must  be  the  lot  of  him 
who  has  outward  advantages  above  the  rest,  and  yet  is  at  all 
awakened  to  the  wants  of  all.  Has  he  mind  ?  how  shall  he  learn  ? 
time — how  employ  it  ?  means — where  apply  them  ?  The  poor 
little  "  trapper,"  kept  in  the  dark  at  his  automaton  task  twelve 
hours  a  day,  has  an  easy  and  happy  life  before  him,  compared 
with  the  prince  on  the  throne,  if  that  prince  possesses  a  con 
science  that  can  be  roused,  a  mind  that  can  be  developed. 

The  position  of  such  a  prince  is  indicated  in  the  following  ex 
tract  which  we  take  from  the  Schnellpost.  Laube  says  in  his 
late  work,  called  "  Three  royal  cities  of  the  North,"  "  King 
Oscar  still  lives  in  the  second  story  of  the  castle  at  Stockholm, 
where  he  lived  when  he  was  crowned  prince.  He  was  out,  and 
his  dressing  gown  thrown  upon  an  elbow  chair  before  the  writing 
table:  all  was  open,  showing  how  he  was  occupied.  I  found 
among  the  books,  that  seemed  in  present  use,  many  in  German, 
among  them  the  "  Staats  Lexicon,"  "  Julius  upon  Prisons," 
"  Rotteck's  History  of  the  World."  It  is  well  known  that  King 
Oscar  is  especially  interested  in  studies  for  the  advantage  of  the 
most  unhappy  classes  of  citizens,  the  poor  and  the  prisoners,  and 


POETS  OP  THE  PEOPLE.  17 

has,  himself,  written  upon  the  subject.  His  apartment  shows 
domestic  habits  like  those  of  a  writer.  No  fine  library  full  of 
books  left  to  accumulate  dust,  but  what  he  wants,  chosen  with 
judgment,  ready  for  use  around  him.  A  hundred  little  things 
showed  what  should  be  the  modern  kingly  character,  at  home  in 
the  intellectual  life  of  our  time,  earnest  for  a  general  culture. 
Every  thing  in  his  simple  arrangements  showed  the  manly  demo 
cratic  prince.  He  is  up,  early  and  late,  attending  with  zealous 
conscientiousness  to  the  duties  of  his  office." 

Such  a  life  should  England's  prince  live,  and  then  he  would  be 
only  one  of  the  many  virtuous  seekers,  with  a  better  chance  to  try 
experiments.  The  genius  of  the  time  is  working  through  myriad 
organs,  speaking  through  myriad  mouths,  but  condescends  chiefly 
to  men  of  low  estate.  She  is  spelling  a  new  and  sublime  spell  ; 
its  first  word  we  know  is  brotherhood,  but  that  must  be  well  pro- 
nounced  and  learnt  by  heart  before  we  shall  hear  another  so  clearly. 
One  thing  is  obvious,  we  must  cease  to  worship  princes  even  in 
genius.  The  greatest  geniuses  will  in  this  day  rank  themselves  as 
the  chief  servants  only.  It  is  not  even  the  most  exquisite,  the  high 
est,  but  rather  the  largest  and  deepest  experience  that  can  serve 
us.  The  Prince  of  Wales,  like  his  poetess,  will  not  be  so  able  a 
servant  on  account  of  the  privileges  she  so  gracefully  enumerates 
and  cannot  persuade  herself  are  not  blessings.  But  they  will 
keep  him,  as  they  have  kept  her,  farther  from  the  truth  and 
knowledge  wanted  than  he  would  have  been  in  a  less  sheltered 
position. 

Yet  we  sympathize  with  Mrs.  Norton  in  her  appeal.  Every 
boy  should  be  a  young  prince  ;  since  it  is  not  so,  in  the  present 
distorted  state  of  society,  it  is  natural  to  select  some  one  cherished 
object  as  the  heir  to  our  hopes.  Children  become  the  angels  of 
a  better  future  to  all  who  attain  middle  age  without  losing  from 
the  breast  that  chief  jewel,  the  idea  of  what  man  and  life  should 
be.  They  must  do  what  we  hoped  to  do,  but  find  time,  strength, 


18  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


perhaps  even  spirit,  failing.  They  show  not  yet  their  limitations ; 
in  their  eyes  shines  an  infinite  hope  ;  we  can  imagine  it  realized 
in  their  lives,  and  this  consoles  us  for  the  deficiencies  in  our  own, 
for  the  soul,  though  demanding  the  beautiful  and  good  every 
where,  can  yet  be  consoled  if  it  is  found  some  where.  5Tis  an 
illusion  to  look  for  it  in  these  children  more  than  in  ourselves, 
but  it  is  one  we  seem  to  need,  being  the  second  strain  of  the  mu 
sic  that  cheers  our  fatiguing  march  through  this  part  of  the  scene 
of  life. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  prestige  about  Queen  Victoria's 
coming  to  the  throne.  She  was  young,  "  and  had  what  in  a 
princess  might  be  styled  beauty."  She  wept  lest  she  should  not 
reign  wisely,  and  that  seemed  as  if  she  might.  Many  hoped  she 
might  prove  another  Elizabeth,  with  more  heart,  using  the  privi 
leges  of  the  woman,  her  high  feeling,  sympathy,  tact  and  quick 
penetration  in  unison  with,  and  as  corrective  of,  the  advice  of  ex 
perienced  statesmen.  We  hoped  she  would  be  a  mother  to  the 
country.  But  she  has  given  no  signs  of  distinguished  character; 
her  walk  seems  a  private  one.  She  is  a  fashionable  lady  and 
the  mother  of  a  family.  We  hope  she  may  prove  the  mother  of 
a  good  prince,  but  it  will  not  do  to  wait  for  him  ;  the  present 
generation  must  do  all  it  can.  If  he  does  no  harm,  it  is  more 
than  is  reasonable  to  expect  from  a  prince — does  no  harm  and  is 
the  keystone  to  keep  the  social  arch  from  falling  into  ruins  till 
the  time  be  ripe  to  construct  a  better  in  its  stead. 

Mrs.  Norton,  addressing  herself  to  the  Child  of  the  Islands, 
goes  through  the  circling  seasons  of  the  year  and  finds  plenty  of 
topics  in  their  changes  to  subserve  her  main  aim.  This  is  to 
awaken  the  rich  to  their  duty.  And,  though  the  traces  of  her 
education  are  visible,  and  weak  prejudices  linger  among  newly 
awakened  thoughts,  yet,  on  the  whole,  she  shows  a  just  sense  of 
the  relationship  betwixt  man  and  man,  and  musically  doth  she 
proclaim  her  creed  in  the  lines  beginning 


POETS  OP  THE  PEOPLE.  19 

The  stamps  of  imperfection  rests  on  all 
Our  human  intellect  has  power  to  plan. 

After  an  eloquent  enumeration  of  the  difficulties  that  beset  our 
path  and  our  faith,  she  concludes — 

Lo!  out  of  chaos  was  the  world  first  called, 

And  Order  out  of  blank  Disorder  came, 
The  feebly-toiling  heart  that  shrinks  appalled, 

In  dangers  weak,  in  difficulties  tame, 

Hath  lost  the  spark  of  that  creative  flame 
Dimly  permitted  still  on  earth  to  burn, 

Working  out  slowly  Order's  perfect  frame; 
Distributed  to  those  whose  souls  can  learn, 
As  labourers  under  God,  His  task-work  to  discern. 

"  To  discern,"  ay  !  that  is  what  is  needed.  Only  these  "  la 
bourers  under  God"  have  that  clearness  of  mind  that  is  needed, 
and  though  in  the  present  time  they  walk  as  men  in  a  subterra 
nean  passage  where  the  lamp  sheds  its  light  only  a  little  way 
onward,  yet  that  light  suffices  to  keep  their  feet  from  stumbling 
while  they  seek  an  outlet  to  the  blessed  day. 

The  above  presents  a  fair  specimen  of  the  poem.  As  poetry 
it  is  inferior  to  her  earlier  verses,  where,  without  pretension  to 
much  thought,  or  commanding  view,  Mrs.  Norton  expressed  sim 
ply  the  feelings  of  the  girl  and  the  woman.  Willis  has  described 
them  well  in  one  of  the  most  touching  of  his  poems,  as  being  a 
tale 

— "  of  feelings  which  in  me  are  cold, 
But  ah !  with  what  a  passionate  sweetness  told !" 

The  best  passages  in  the  present  poem  are  personal,  as  where 
a  mother's  feelings  are  expressed  in  speaking  of  infants  and 
young  children,  recollections  of  a  Scotch  Autumn,  and  the  de 
scription  of  the  imprisoned  gipsey.* 

*  This  extract  was  inserted  hi  the  original  notice,  but  must  be  omitted  here 
for  want  of  room. 


20  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

In  the  same  soft  and  flowing  style,  and  with  the  same  unstudied 
fidelity  to  nature,  is  the  grief  of  the  gipsey  husband  painted 
when  he  comes  and  finds  her  dead.  After  the  first  fury  of  rage 
and  despair  is  spent,  he  "  weepeth  like  a  child" — 

And  many  a  day  by  many  a  sunny  bank, 

Or  forest  pond,  close  fringed  with  rushes  dank, 
He  wails,  his  clench'd  hands  on  his  eyelids  prest ; 

Or  by  lone  hedges,  where  the  grass  grows  rank, 
Stretched  prone,  as  travelers  deem,  in  idle  rest, 
Mourns  for  that  murdered  girl,  the  dove  of  his  wild  nest. 

To  such  passages  the  woman's  heart  lends  the  rhetoric. 

Generally  the  poem  is  written  with  considerable  strength,  in  a 
good  style,  sustained,  and  sufficiently  adorned,  by  the  flowers  of 
feeling.  It  shows  an  expansion  of  mind  highly  honourable  to  a 
lady  placed  as  Mrs.  Norton  has  been,  and  for  which  she,  no 
doubt,  is  much  indebted  to  her  experience  of  sorrow.  She  has 
felt  the  need  of  faith  and  hope,  of  an  enlargement  of  sympathy. 
The  poem  may  be  read  through  at  once  and  without  fatigue  ; 
this  is  much  to  say  for  an  ethical  poem,  filling  a  large  volume. 
It  is,  however,  chiefly  indebted  for  its  celebrity  to  the  circum 
stances  of  its  authorship.  A  beautiful  lady,  celebrated  in  aristo 
cratic  circles,  joins  the  democratic  movement,  now  so  widely 
spreading  in  light  literature,  and  men  hail  the  fact  as  a  sign  of 
the  times.  The  poem  is  addressed  to  the  "  upper  classes,"  and, 
even  from  its  defects,  calculated  to  win  access  to  their  minds. 
Its  outward  garb,  too,  is  suited  to  attract  their  notice.  The  book 
is  simply  but  beautifully  got  up,  the  two  stanzas  looking  as  if 
written  for  the  page  they  fill,  and  in  a  pre-existent  harmony  with 
the  frame-work  and  margin.  There  is  only  one  ugly  thing,  and 
that  frightfully  ugly,  the  design  for  the  frontispiece  by  Maclise. 
The  Child  of  the  Islands,  represented  by  an  infant  form  to  whose 
frigid  awkwardness  there  is  no  correspondence  in  the  most  de 
graded  models  that  can  be  found  in  Nature  for  that  age,  with  the 


POETS  OP  THE  PEOPLE.  21 

tamest  of  angels  kneeling  at  his  head  and  feet,  angels  that  have 
not  spirit  and  sweetness  enough  to  pray  away  a  fly,  forms  the 
centre.  Around  him  are  other  figures  of  whom  it  is  impossible 
to  say  whether  they  are  goblins  or  fairies,  come  to  curse  or  bless. 
The  accessories  are  as  bad  as  the  main  group,  mean  in  concep 
tion,  tame  in  execution.  And  the  subject  admitted  of  so  beauti 
ful  and  noble  an  illustration  by  Art !  We  marvel  that  a  person 
of  so  refined  taste  as  Mrs.  Norton,  and  so  warmly  engaged  in 
the  subject,  should  have  admitted  this  to  its  companionship. 

We  intended  to  have  given  some  account  of  Prince  and  his 
poems,  in  this  connection,  but  must  now  wait  till  another  num 
ber,  for  we  have  spread  our  words  over  too  much  space  already. 


MISS  BARRETT'S  POEMS. 


A  DRAMA  OF  EXILE:  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  By  ELIZABETH  B.  BAR- 
RETT,  author  of  THE  SERAPHIM  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  New- York :  Henry  G. 
Langley,  No.  8  Astor  House,  1845 

WHAT  happiness  for  the  critic  when,  as  in  the  present  instance, 
his  task  is,  mainly,  how  to  express  a  cordial  admiration  ;  to  in 
dicate  an  intelligence  of  beauties,  rather  than  regret  for  defects  ! 

We  have  read  these  volumes  with  feelings  of  delight  far 
warmer  than  the  writer,  in  her  sincerely  modest  preface,  would 
seem  to  expect  from  any  reader,  and  cannot  hesitate  to  rank  her, 
in  vigour  and  nobleness  of  conception,  depth  of  spiritual  experi 
ence,  and  command  of  classic  allusion,  above  any  female  writer 
the  world  has  yet  known. 

In  the  first  quality,  especially,  most  female  writers  are  defi 
cient.  They  do  not  grasp  a  subject  with  simple  energy,  nor 
treat  it  with  decision  of  touch.  They  are,  in  general,  most  re 
markable  for  delicacy  of  feeling,  and  brilliancy  or  grace  in 
manner. 

In  delicacy  of  perception,  Miss  Barrett  may  vie  with  any  of 
her  sex.  She  has  what  is  called  a  true  woman's  heart,  although 
we  must  believe  that  men  of  a  fine  conscience  and  good  organi 
zation  will  have  such  a  heart  no  less.  Signal  instances  occur 
to  us  in  the  cases  of  Spenser,  Wordsworth  and  Tennyson.  The 
woman  who  reads  them  will  not  find  hardness  or  blindness  as  to 
the  subtler  workings  of  thoughts  and  affections. 

If  men  are  often  deficient  on  this  score  ;  women,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  apt  to  pay  excessive  attention  to  the  slight  tokens,  the 


MISS   BARRETT'S  POEMS.  23 

little  things  of  life.  Thus,  in  conduct  or  writing,  they  tend  to 
weary  us  by  a  morbid  sentimentalism.  From  this  fault  Miss 
Barrett  is  wholly  free.  Personal  feeling  is  in  its  place  ;  enlight 
ened  by  Reason,  ennobled  by  Imagination.  The  earth  is  no  de 
spised  resting  place  for  the  feet,  the  heaven  bends  wide  above, 
rich  in  starry  hopes,  and  the  air  flows  around  exhilarating  and 
free. 

The  mournful,  albeit  we  must  own  them  tuneful,  sisters  of  the 
lyre  might  hush  many  of  their  strains  at  this  clear  note  from  one 
who  has  felt  and  conquered  the  same  difficulties. 

PERPLEXED  MUSIC. 

"  Experience,  like  a  pale  musician,  holds 
A  dulcimer  of  patience  in  his  hand : 
Whence  harmonies  we  cannot  understand 
Of  God's  will  in  his  worlds  the  strain  unfolds; 
In  sad  perplexed  minors.     Deathly  colds 
Fall  on  us  while  we  hear  and  countermand 
Our  sanguine  heart  back  from  the  fancy  land, 
With  nightingales  in  visionary  wolds. 

We  murmur — '  Where  is  any  certain  tune, 
Or  measured  music  in  such  notes  as  these  V 
But  angels  leaning  from  the  golden  seat, 

Are  not  so  minded ;  their  fine  ear  hath  won 
The  issue  of  completed  cadences  ; 
And  smiling  down  the  stars,  they  whisper — SWEET." 
We  are  accustomed  now  to  much   verse  on  moral  subjects, 
such   as  follows  the  lead  of  Wordsworth  and  seeks  to  arrange 
moral  convictions  as  melodies  on  the  harp.     But  these  tones  are 
never  deep,  unless  the  experience  of  the  poet,  in  the  realms  of 
intellect  and  emotion,  be  commensurate  with  his  apprehension  of 
truth.    Wordsworth  moves  us  when  he  writes  an  "  Ode  to  Duty," 
or  "  Dion,"  because  he  could  also  write  "  Ruth,"  and  the  exqui 
sitely  tender  poems  on  Matthew,  in  whom  nature 

"  — for  a  favorite  child 
Had  tempered  so  the  clay, 


34  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

That  every  hour  the  heart  ran  wild, 
Yet  never  went  astray." 

The  trumpet  call  of  Luther's  '  Judgment  Hymrr  sounds  from 
the  depths  of  a  nature  capable  of  all  human  emotions,  or  it  could 
not  make  the  human  ear  vibrate  as  it  does.  The  calm  convic 
tions  expressed  by  Miss  Barrett  in  the  sonnets  come  with  poetic 
force,  because  she  was  also  capable  of  writing  '  The  Lost  Bower,' 
«  The  Romaunt  of  the  Page,'  '  Loved  Once,'  <  Bertha  in  the 
Lane,'  and  '  A  Lay  of  the  Early  Rose.3  These  we  select  as  the 
finest  of  the  tender  poems. 

In  the  *  Drama  of  Exile'  and  the  '  Vision  of  Poets,'  where  she 
aims  at  a  Miltonic  flight  or  Dantesque  grasp — not  in  any  spirit 
of  rivalry  or  imitation,  but  because  she  is  really  possessed  of  a 
similar  mental  scope — her  success  is  far  below  what  we  find  in 
the  poems  of  feeling  and  experience  ;  for  she  has  the  vision  of  a 
great  poet,  but  little  in  proportion  of  his  plastic  power.  She  is 
at  home  in  the  Universe  ;  she  sees  its  laws  ;  she  sympathises 
with  its  motions.  She  has  the  imagination  all  compact — the 
healthy  archetypal  plant  from  which  all  forms  may  be  divined, 
and,  so  far  as  now  existent,  understood.  Like  Milton,  she  sees 
the  angelic  hosts  in  real  presence  ;  like  Dante,  she  hears  the 
spheral  concords  and  shares  the  planetary  motions.  But  she 
cannot,  like  Milton,  marshal  the  angels  so  near  the  earth  as  to 
impart  the  presence  other  than  by  sympathy.  He  who  is  near 
her  level  of  mind  may,  through  the  magnetic  sympathy,  see  the 
angels  with  her.  Others  will  feel  only  the  grandeur  and  sweet 
ness  she  expresses  in  these  forms.  Still  less  can  she,  like  Dante, 
give,  by  a  touch,  the  key  which  enables  ourselves  to  play  on  the 
same  instrument.  She  is  singularly  deficient  in  the  power  of 
compression.  There  are  always  far  more  words  and  verses  than 
are  needed  to  convey  the  meaning,  and  it  is  a  great  proof  of  her 
strength,  that  the  thought  still  seems  strong,  when  arrayed  in  a 
form  so  Briarean  clumsy  and  many-handed. 


MISS   BARRETT'S   POEMS.  25 

We  compare  her  with  those  great  poets,  though  we  have  read 
her  preface  and  see  how  sincerely  she  deprecates  any  such  com 
parison,  not  merely  because  her  theme  is  the  same  as  theirs,  but 
because,  as  we  must  again  repeat,  her  field  of  vision  and  noble 
ness  of  conception  are  such,  that  we  cannot  forbear  trying  her 
by  the  same  high  standard  to  see  what  she  lacks. 

Of  the  "  Drama  of  Exile"  and  other  poems  of  the  same  char 
acter,  we  may  say  that  we  shall  never  read  them  again,  but  we 
are  very  glad  to  have  read  them  once,  to  see  how  the  grand 
mysteries  look  to  her,  to  share  with  her  the  conception  and  out 
line  of  what  would,  in  the  hands  of  a  more  powerful  artist,  have 
come  forth  a  great  poem.  Our  favorite,  above  anything  we 
have  read  of  hers,  is  the  "  Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May,"  equally 
admirable  in  thought  and  execution,  in  poetic  meaning  and  ro 
mantic  grace. 

Were  there  room  here,  it  should  be  inserted,  as  a  sufficient 
evidence  of  the  writer's  high  claims ;  but  it  is  too  long,  and  does 
not  well  bear  being  broken.  The  touches  throughout  are  fine 
and  forcible,  but  they  need  the  unison  of  the  whole  to  give  them 
their  due  effect. 

Most  of  these  poems  have  great  originality  in  the  thought  and 
the  motive  powers.  It  is  these,  we  suppose,  that  have  made 
"  The  Brown  Rosarie"  so  popular./  It  has  long  been  handed 
about  in  manuscript,  and  hours  have  been  spent  in  copying  it, 
which  would  have  been  spared  if  the  publication  of  these  vol 
umes  in  America  had  been  expected  so  soon.  It  does  not  please 
us  so  well  as  many  of  the  others.  The  following,  for  instance, 
is  just  as  original,  full  of  grace,  and,  almost,  perfectly  simple  : 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  SWAN'S  NEST.* 
How  sweetly  natural !  and  how  distinct  is  the  picture  of  the 

*  Several  poems  mentioned  in  these  articles,  and  published  in  the  first  in 
stance,  are  omitted  now  on  account  of  their  length. 
PART  II.  2 


26  PAPERS  ON   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

little  girl,  as  she  sits  by  the  brook.  The  poem  cannot  fail  to 
charm  all"  who  have  treasured  the  precious  memories  of  their 
own  childhood,  and  remember  how  romance  was  there  interwoven 
with  reality. 

Miss  Barrett  makes  many  most  fair  and  distinct  pictures,  such 
as  this  of  the  Duchess  May  at  the  fatal  moment  when  her  lord's 
fortress  was  giving  way  : 

Low  she  dropt  her  head  and  lower,  till  her  hair  coiled  on  the  floor. 

Toll  slowly! 
And  tear  after  tear  you  heard,  fall  distinct  as  any  word 

Which  you  might  be  listening  for. 
"  Get  thee  in,  thou  soft  ladie! — here  is  never  a  place  for  thee." 

Toll  slowly! 
"  Braid  thy  hair  and  clasp  thy  gown,  that  thy  beauty  in  its  moan 

May  find  grace  with  Leigh  of  Leigh." 
She  stood  up  in  bitter  case,  with  a  pale  yet  steady  face, 

Toll  slowly! 
Like  a  statue  thunderstruck,  which,  though  quivering,  seems  to  look 

Right  against  the  thunder-place, 
And  her  feet  trod  in,  with  pride,  her  own  tears  i'  the  stone  beside. 

Toll  slowly! 

Go  to,  faithful  friends,  go  to  ! — Judge  no  more  what  ladies  do, 
No,  nor  how  their  lords  may  ride. 

and  so  on.     There  are  passages  in  that  poem  beyond  praise. 
Here  are  descriptions  as  fine  of  another  sort  of  person  from 

LADY  GERALDINE'S  COURTSHIP. 

Her  foot  upon  the  new-mown  grass — bareheaded — with  the  flowing 
Of  the  virginal  white  vesture,  gathered  closely  to  her  throat; 
With  the  golden  ringlets  in  her  neck,  just  quickened  by  her  going, 
And  appearing  to  breathe  sun  for  air,  and  doubting  if  to  float, — 

With  a  branch  of  dewy  maple,  which  her  right  hand  held  above  her, 
And  which  trembled  a  green  shadow  in  betwixt  her  and  the  skies, — 
As  she  turned  her  face  in  going,  thus  she  drew  me  on  to  love  her, 
And  to  study  the  deep  meaning  of  the  smile  hid  in  her  eyes. 


MISS  BARRETT'S   POEM&    x>  27 


For  her  eyes  alone  smiled  constantly :  her  lips  had  serious  sweetness, 

And  her  front  was  calm — the  dimple  rarely  rippled  on  her  cheeK^^fcBBecfe^ 

But  her  deep  blue  eyes  smiled  constantly, — as  if  they  had  by  fitness 

Won  the  secret  of  a  happy  dream,  she  did  not  care  to  speak. 

How  fine  are  both  the  descriptive  and  critical  touches  in  the 
following  passage  : 

Ay,  and  sometimes  on  the  hill-side,  while  we  sat  down  in  the  gowans, 
With  the  forest  green  behind  us,  and  its  shadow  cast  before; 
And  the  river  running  under ;  and  across  it,  from  the  rowens, 
A  brown  partridge  whirring  near  us,  till  we  felt  the  air  it  bore — 

There,  obedient  to  her  praying,  did  I  read  aloud  the  poems 
Made  by  Tuscan  flutes,  or  instruments,  more  various,  of  our  own; 
Read  the  pastoral  parts  of  Spenser — or  the  subtle  interflowings 
Found  in  Petrarch's  sonnets — here's  the  book — the  leaf  is  folded  down ! 

Or  at  times  a  modern  volume — Wordsworth's  solemn-thoughted  idyl, 
Howitt's  ballad-dew,  or  Tennyson's  god-vocal  reverie, — 
Or  from  Browning  some  "  Pomegranate,"  which,  if  cut  deep  down  the  middle, 
Shows  a  heart  within,  blood -tinctured,  of  a  veined  humanity. 

Or  I  read  there,  sometimes,  hoarsely,  some  new  poem  of  my  making — 
Oh,  your  poets  never  read  their  own  best  verses  to  their  worth, 
For  the  echo,  in  you,  breaks  upon  the  words  which  you  are  speaking, 
And  the  chariot-wheels  jar  in  the  gate  through  which  you  drive  them  forth. 

After,  when  we  were  grown  tired  of  books,  the  silence  round  us  flinging 
A  slow  arm  of  sweet  compression,  felt  with  beatings  at  the  breast, — 
She  would  break  out,  on  a  sudden,  in  a  gush  of  woodland  singing, 
Like  a  child's  emotion  in  a  god — a  naiad  tired  of  rest. 

Oh,  to  see  or  hear  her  singing !  scarce  I  know  which  is  divinest — 

For  her  looks  sing  too — she  modulates  her  gestures  on  the  tune ; 

And  her  mouth  stirs  with  the  song,  like  song ;  and  when  the  notes  are  finest, 

'Tis  the  eyes  that  shoot  out  vocal  light,  and  seem  to  swell  them  on. 

Then  we  talked — oh,  how  we  talked  !  her  voice  so  cadenced  in  the  talking, 
Made  another  singing — of  the  soul !  a  music  without  bars — 
While  the  leafy  sounds  of  woodlands,  humming  round  where  We  were  walking, 
Brought  interposition  worthy-sweet,— as  skies  about  the  stars. 


PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


And  she  spake  such  good  thoughts  natural,  as  if  she  always  thought  them  — 
And  had  sympathies  so  ready,  open-free  like  bird  on  branch, 
Just  as  ready  to  fly  east  as  west,  which  ever  way  besought  them, 
In  the  birchen  wood  a  chirrup,  or  a  cock-crow  in  the  grange. 

In  her  utmost  lightness  there  is  truth — and  often  she  speaks  lightly ; 
And  she  has  a  grace  in  being  gay,  which  mourners  even  approve ; 
For  the  root  of  some  grave  earnest  thought  is  understruck  so  rightly, 
As  to  justify  the  foliage  and  the  waving  flowers  above." 

We  must  copy  yet  one  other  poem  to  give  some  idea  of  the 
range  of  Miss  Barrett's  power. 

THE  CRY  OP  THE  CHILDREN. 

If  it  be  said  that  the  poetry,  the  tragedy  here  is  in  the  facts, 
yet  how  rare  is  it  to  find  a  mind  that  can  both  feel  and  upbear 
T<.sueh  facts. 

We  have  already  said,  that,  as  a  poet,  Miss  Barrett  is  deficient 
in  plastic  energy,  and  that  she  is  diffuse.  We  must  add  many 
blemishes  of  overstrained  and  constrained  thought  and  expression. 
The  ways  in  which  words  are  coined  or  forced  from  their  habit 
ual  meanings  does  not  carry  its  excuse  with  it.  We  find  no 
gain  that  compensates  the  loss  of  elegance  and  simplicity.  One 
practice  which  has  already  had  its  censors  of  using  the  adjective 
for  the  noun,  as  in  the  cases  of  "  The  cry  of  the  Human," 
"  Leaning  from  the  Golden,"  we,  also,  find  offensive,  not  only  to 
the  habitual  tastes,  but  to  the  sympathies  of  the  very  mood 
awakened  by  the  writer. 

We  hear  that  she  has  long  been  an  invalid,  and,  while  the  know 
ledge  of  this  increases  admiration  for  her  achievements  and  de 
light  at  the  extent  of  the  influence, — so  much  light  flowing  from 
the  darkness  of  the  sick  room, — we  seem  to  trace  injurious  re 
sults,  too.  There  is  often  a  want  of  pliant  and  glowing  life. 
The  sun  does  not  always  warm  the  marble.  We  have  spoken 
of  the  great  book  culture  of  this  mind.  We  must  now  say  that 
this  culture  is  too  great  in  proportion  to  that  it  has  received  from 


MISS   BARRETT'S   POEMS. 


actual  life.  The  lore  is  not  always  assimilated  to  the  new  form ; 
the  illustrations  sometimes  impede  the  attention  rather  than  help 
its  course ;  and  we  are  too  much  and  too  often  reminded  of  other 
minds  and  other  lives. 

Great  variety  of  metres  are  used,  and  with  force  and  facility. 
But  they  have  not  that  deep  music  which  belongs  to  metres  which 
are  the  native  growth  of  the  poet's  mind.  In  that  case,  others 
may  have  used  them,  but  we  feel  that,  if  they  had  not,  he  must 
have  invented  them  ;  that  they  are  original  with  him.  Miss 
Barrett  is  more  favoured  by  the  grand  and  thoughtful,  than  by  the 
lyric  muse. 

We  have  thus  pointed  out  all  the  faults  we  could  find  in  Miss 
Barrett,  feeling  that  her  strength  and  nobleness  deserves  this  act 
of  high  respect.  She  has  no  need  of  leniency,  or  caution.  The 
best  comment  upon  such  critiques  may  be  made  by  subjoining 
this  paragraph  from  her  Preface  : 

"  If  it  were  not  presumptuous  language  on  the  lips  of  one  to  whom  life  is 
more  than  usually  uncertain,  my  favourite  wish  for  this  work  would  be,  that  it 
be  received  by  the  public  as  a  deposite,  ambitious  of  approaching  to  the  nature  of 
a  security  for  a  future  offering  of  more  value  and  acceptability.  I  would  fain 
do  better,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  might  do  better :  I  aspire  to  do  better.  In  any  case, 
my  poems,  while  full  of  faults,  as  I  go  forward  to  my  critics  and  confess,  have 
my  life  and  heart  in  them.  They  are  not  empty  shells.  If  it  must  be  said  of 
me  that  I  have  contributed  unworthy  verses,  I  also  to  the  many  rejected  by  the 
age,  it  cannot,  at  least  be  said  that  I  have  done  so  in  a  light  or  irresponsible 
spirit.  Poetry  has  been  as  serious  a  thing  to  me  as  life  itself;  and  life  has  been 
a  very  serious  thing ;  there  has  been  no  playing  at  skittles  for  me  in  either.  I 
never  mistook  pleasure  for  the  final  cause  of  poetry ;  nor  leisure,  for  the  hour  of 
the  poet.  I  have  done  my  work,  so  far,  as  Work ;  not  as  mere  hand  and  head 
work  apart  from  the  personal  being,  but  as  the  completest  expression  of  that 
being  to  which  I  could  attain;  and,  as  work,  I  offer  it  to  the  public,  feeling  its 
faultiness  more  deeply  than  any  of  my  readers,  because  measured  from  the  height 
of  my  aspiration,  but  feeling  also  that  the  reverence  and  sincerity  with  which 
the  work  was  done  should  protect  it  in  the  thoughts  of  the  reverent  and  sin 
cere." 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


Of  the  greatest  of  Grecian  sages  it  was  said  that  he  acquired 
such  power  over  the  lower  orders  of  nature,  through  his  purii^ 
and  intelligence,  that  wild  beasts  were  abashed  and  reformed  by 
his  admonitions,  and  that,  once,  when  walking  abroad  with  his 
disciples,  he  called  down  the  white  eagle,  soaring  above  him,  and 
drew  from  her  willing  wing  a  quill  for  his  use. 

We  have  seen  women  use  with  skill  and  grace,  the  practical 
goose-quill,  the  sentimental  crow-quill,  and  even  the  lyrical,  the 
consecrated  feathers  of  the  swan.  But  we  have  never  seen  one  to 
whom  the  white  eagle  would  have  descended  ;  and,  for  a  while, 
were  inclined  to  think  that  the  hour  had  now,  for  the  first  time, 
arrived.  But,  upon  full  deliberation,  we  will  award  to  Miss 
Barrett  one  from  the  wing  of  the  sea-gull.  That  is  also  a  white 
bird,  rapid,  soaring,  majestic,  and  which  can  alight  with  ease, 
and  poise  itself  upon  the  stormiest  wave. 


BROWNING'S   POEMS. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  is  scarcely  known  in  this  country,  as,  in 
deed,  in  his  own,  his  fame  can  spread  but  slowly,  from  the  nature 
of  his  works.  On  this  very  account, — of  the  peculiarity  of  his 
genius, — we  are  desirous  to  diffuse  the  knowledge  that  there  is 
such  a  person,  thinking  and  writing,  so  that  those  who,  here  and 
there,  need  just  him,  and  not  another,  may  know  where  to  turn. 

Our  first  acquaintance  with  this  subtle  and  radiant  mind  was 
through  his  "  Paracelsus,"  of  which  we  cannot  now  obtian  a  copy, 
and  must  write  from  a  distant  memory. 

It  is  one  of  those  attempts,  that  illustrate  the  self-consciousness 
of  this  age,  to  represent  the  fever  of  the  soul  pining  to  embrace 
the  secret  of  the  universe  in  a  single  trance.  Men  who  are  once 
seized  with  this  fever,  carry  thought  upon  the  heart  as  a  cross, 
instead  of  finding  themselves  daily  warmed  and  enlightened  to 
more  life  and  joy  by  the  sacred  fire  to  which  their  lives  daily 
bring  fresh  fuel. 

Sometimes  their  martyrdoms  greatly  avail,  as  to  positive 
achievements  of  knowledge  for  their  own  good  and  that  of  all 
men ;  but,  oftener,  they  only  enrich  us  by  experience  of  the 
temporary  limitations  of  the  mind,  and  the  inutility  of  seeking  to 
transcend,  instead  of  working  within  them. 

Of  this  desire,  to  seize  at  once  as  a  booty  what  it  was  intended 
we  should  legitimately  win  by  gradual  growth,  alchemy  and  the 
elixir  vita  were,  in  the  middle  ages,  apt  symbols.  In  seeking 
how  to  prolong  life,  men  wasted  its  exquisite  spring-time  and 


32  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

splendid  summer,  lost  the  clues  they  might  have  gained  by  initia 
tion  to  the  mysteries  of  the  present  existence.  They  sought  to 
make  gold  in  crucibles,  through  study  of  the  laws  which  govern 
the  material  world,  while  within  them  was  a  crucible  and  a  fire 
beneath  it,  which  only  needed  watching,  in  faith  and  purity,  and 
they  would  have  turned  all  substances  to  treasure,  which  neither 
moth  nor  rust  could  corrupt. 

Paracelsus  had  one  of  those  soaring  ambitions  that  sought  the 
stars  and  built  no  nest  amid  the  loves  or  lures  of  life.  Incapable 
of  sustaining  himself  in  angelic  force  and  purity,  he  tainted,  after 
a  while,  his  benefits,  by  administering  them  with  the  arts  of  a 
charlatan,  seeking  too  ambitiously  the  mastery  of  life,  he  missed 
its  best  instructions. 

Yet  he  who  means  nobleness,  though  he  misses  his  chosen  aim, 
cannot  fail  to  bring  down  a  precious  quarry  from  the  clouds. 
Paracelsus  won  deep  knowledge  of  himself  and  his  God.  Love 
followed,  if  it  could  not  bless  him,  and  the  ecstacies  of  genius 
wove  music  into  his  painful  dreams. 

The  holy  and  domestic  love  of  Michal,  that  Ave  Maria  Stella 
of  his  stormy  life,  the  devotion  of  a  friend,  who  living,  for  him 
self,  in  the  humility  of  a  genuine  priest,  yet  is  moved  by  the 
pangs  of  sympathy,  to  take  part  against  and  "  wrestle  with" 
Heaven  in  his  behalf,  the  birth  and  bud  of  the  creative  spirit 
which  blesses  through  the  fulness  of  forms,  as  expressed  in 
Aprile,  all  are  told  with  a  beauty  and,  still  more,  a  pregnancy, 
unsurpassed  amid  the  works  of  contemporary  minds. 

"  Sordello"  we  have  never  seen,  and  have  been  much  disap 
pointed  at  not  being  able  to  obtain  the  loan  of  a  copy  now  existent 
in  New  England.  It  is  spoken  of  as  a  work  more  thickly  en 
veloped  in  refined  obscurities  than  ever  any  other  that  really  had 
a  meaning  ;  and  no  one  acquainted  with  Browning's  mind  can 
doubt  his  always  having  a  valuable  meaning,  though  sometimes 
we  may  not  be  willing  to  take  the  degree  of  trouble  necessary  to 


BROWNING'S  POEMS.  33 

ferret  it  out.  His  writings  have,  till  lately,  been  clouded  by  ob 
scurities,  his  riches  having  seemed  to  accumulate  beyond  his 
mastery  of  them.  So  beautiful  are  the  picture  gleams,  so  full  of 
meaning  the  little  thoughts  that  are  always  twisting  their  para 
sites  over  his  main  purpose,  that  we  hardly  can  bear  to  wish  them 
away,  even  when  we  know  their  excess  to  be  a  defect.  The) 
seem,  each  and  all,  too  good  to  be  lopped  away,  and  we  cannot 
wonder  the  mind  from  which  they  grew  was  at  a  loss  which  to 
reject.  Yet,  a  higher  mastery  in  the  poetic  art  must  give  him 
skill  and  resolution  to  reject  them.  Then,  all  true  life  being  con 
densed  into  the  main  growth,  instead  of  being  so  much  scattered 
in  tendrils,  off-shoots  and  flower-bunches,  the  effect  would  be 
more  grand  and  simple ;  nor  should  we  be  any  loser  as  to  the 
spirit ;  it  would  all  be  there,  only  more  concentrated  as  to  the 
form,  more  full,  if  less  subtle,  in  its  emanations.  The  tendency 
to  variety  and  delicacy,  rather  than  to  a  grasp  of  the  subject  and 
concentration  of  interest,  are  not  so  obvious  in  Browning's  minor 
works  as  in  Paracelsus,  and  in  his  tragedy  of  '  Strafford.'  This 
very  difficult  subject  for  tragedy  engaged,  at  about  the  same  time, 
the  attention  of  Sterling.  Both  he  and  Browning  seem  to  have 
had  it  brought  before  their  attention  by  Foster's  spirited  biogra 
phy  of  Strafford.  We  say  it  is  difficult — though  we  see  how  it 
tempted  the  poets  to  dramatic  enterprise.  The  main  character 
is  one  of  tragic  force  and  majesty ;  the  cotemporary  agents  all 
splendid  figures,  and  of  marked  individuality ;  the  march  of  ac 
tion  necessarily  rapid  and  imposing ;  the  events  induced  of  uni 
versal  interest.  But  the  difficulty  is,  that  the  materials  are  even 
too  rich  and  too  familiar  to  every  one.  We  cannot  bear  any  vio 
lation  of  reality,  any  straining  of  the  common  version  of  this 
story.  Then  the  character  and  position  of  Strafford  want  that 
moral  interest  which  is  needed  to  give  full  pathos  to  the  catas 
trophe.  We  admire  his  greatness  of  mind  and  character,  we  loathe 
the  weakness  and  treachery  of  the  King ;  we  dislike  the  stern 


34  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

hunters,  notwithstanding  their  patriotic  motives,  for  pursuing  to 
the  death  the  noble  stag ;  and  yet  we  feel  he  ought  to  die.  We 
wish  that  he  had  been  killed,  not  by  the  hands  of  men,  with  their 
spotted  and  doubtful  feelings,  but  smitten  direct  by  pure  fire  from 
heaven.  Still  we  feel  he  ought  to  die,  and  our  grief  wants  the 
true  tragic  element  which  hallows  it  in  the  Antigone,  the  Lear, 
and  even  Schiller's  "  Mary  Stuart,"  or  "  Wallenstein." 

But  of  the  two,  Sterling's  conception  of  the  character  and 
conduct  of  the  drama  is  far  superior  to  that  of  Browning.  Both 
dramas  are  less  interesting  and  effective  than  the  simple  outline 
history  gives,  but  Browning  weakens  the  truth  in  his  representa 
tion  of  it,  while  Sterling  at  least  did  not  falsify  the  character  of 
Strafford,  bitter,  ruthlessly  ambitious,  but  strong  and  majestic 
throughout.  Browning  loses,  too,  his  accustomed  originality  and 
grace  in  the  details  of  this  work,  through  a  misplaced  ambition. 

But  believing  that  our  poet  has  not  reached  that  epoch  of  mas 
tery,  when  he  can  do  himself  full  justice  in  a  great  work,  we 
would  turn  rather  to  the  consideration  of  a  series  of  sketches, 
dramatic  and  lyric,  which  he  has  been  publishing  for  several 
years,  under  the  title  of  "  Bells  and  Pomegranates."  We  do  not 
know  whether  this  seemingly  affected  title  is  assumed  in  conform 
ity  with  the  catch-penny  temper  of  the  present  day,  or  whether 
these  be  really  in  the  mind  of  Robert  Browning  no  more  than  the 
glittering  fringe  of  his  priestly  garment.  If  so,  we  shall  cherish 
high  hopes,  indeed,  as  to  the  splendors  that  will  wait  upon  the 
unfolding  of  the  main  vesture. 

The  plan  of  these  sketches  is  original,  the  execution  in  many 
respects,  admirable,  and  the  range  of  talent  and  perception  they 
display,  wider  than  that  of  any  contemporary  poet  in  England. 

"  Pippa  Passes"  is  the  title  of  the  first  of  these  little  two  shil 
ling  volumes,  which  seem  to  contain  just  about  as  much  as  a 
man  who  lives  wisely,  might,  after  a  good  summer  of  mingled 


BROWNING'S   POEMS.  35 


work,  business  and  pleasure,  have  to  offer  to  the  world,  as  the 
honey  he  could  spare  from  his  hive. 

Pippa  is  a  little  Italian  girl  who  works  in  a  silk  mill.  Once  a 
year  the  workpeople  in  these  mills  have  an  entire  day  given  them 
for  their  pleasure.  She  is  introduced  at  sunrise  of  such  a  day, 
singing  her  morning  thoughts.  She  then  goes  forth  to  wander 
through  the  town,  singing  her  little  songs  of  childish  gayety  and 
purity.  She  passes,  not  through,  but  by,  different  scenes  of  life, 
passes  by  a  scene  of  guilty  pleasure,  by  the  conspiracies  of  the 
malicious,  by  the  cruel  undeception  of  the  young  sculptor  who 
had  dared  trust  his  own  heart  more  fully  than  is  the  wont  of  the 
corrupt  and  cautious  world.  Every  where  the  notes  of  her  song 
pierce  their  walls  and  windows,  awakening  them  to  memories  of 
innocence  and  checking  the  course  of  misdeed.  The  plan  of  this 
work  is,  it  will  be  seen,  at  once  rich  and  simple.  It  admits  of  an 
enchanting  variety,  and  an  unobtrusive  unity.  Browning  has 
made  the  best  use  of  its  advantages.  The  slides  in  the  magic 
lantern  succeed  one  another  with  perfect  distinctness,  but,  through 
them  all  shines  the  light  of  this  one  beautiful  Italian  day,  and  the 
little  silk  winder,  its  angel,  discloses  to  us  as  fine  gleams  of  gar 
den,  stream  and  sky,  as  we  have  time  to  notice  while  passing  such 
various  and  interesting  groups  of  human  beings. 

The  finest  sketch  of  these  is  that  of  Jules,  the  sculptor,  and 
his  young  bride.  Jules,  like  many  persons  of  a  lofty  mould,  in 
the  uncompromising  fervour  of  youth,  makes  all  those  among  his 
companions  whom  he  thinks  weak,  base  and  vicious,  his  enviers 
and  bitter  enemies.  A  set  of  such  among  his  fellow-students 
have  devised  this  most  wicked  plan  to  break  his  heart  and  pride 
at  once.  They  write  letters  as  from  a  maiden  who  has  distin 
guished  him  from  the  multitude,  and  knows  how  to  sympathize 
with  all  his  tastes  and  aims.  They  buy  of  her  mother  a  beauti 
ful  young  girl,  who  is  to  represent  the  character.  The  letters 
assume  that  she  is  of  a  family  of  rank  who  will  not  favour  the 


36  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

alliance,  and  when  Jules,  enchanted  by  the  union  of  the  beauty 
of  intellect  in  the  letters  and  the  beauty  of  person  of  which  he 
has  gained  glimpses,  presses  his  suit  as  a  lover,  marriage  is  con 
sented  to  on  condition  that  he  shall  not  seek  to  converse  with  her 
till  after  the  ceremony.  This  is  the  first  talk  of  Jules  after  he 
has  brought  his  silent  bride  to  his  studio  : 

Thou  by  me 

And  I  by  thee — this  is  thy  hand  in  mine — 
And  side  by  side  we  sit — all's  true.     Thank  God  ! 
I  have  spoken — speak  thou ! 

— O,  my  life  to  come ! 

My  Tydeus  must  be  carved  that's  there  in  clay, 
And  how  be  carved  with  you  about  the  chamber  1 
Where  must  I  place  you  1     When  I  think  that  once 
This  room  full  of  rough  block- work  seemed  my  heaven 
Without  you !     Shall  I  ever  work  again — 
Get  fairly  into  my  old  ways  again — 
Bid  each  conception  stand  while  trait  by  trait 
My  hand  transfers  its  lineaments  to  stone  1 
Will  they,  my  fancies,  live  near  you,  my  truth — 
The  live  truth — passing  and  repassing  me — 
Sitting  beside  me  1 

— Now  speak ! 

Only,  first, 

Your  letters  to  me — was't  not  well  contrived  1 
A  hiding  place  in  Psyche's  robe — there  lie 
Next  to  her  skin  your  letters ;  which  comes  foremost  1 
Good — this  that  swam  down  like  a  first  moonbeam 
Into  my  world. 

Those  1     Books  I  told  you  of. 
Let  your  first  word  to  me  rejoice  them,  too, — 
This  minion  of  Coluthus,  writ  in  red 
Bistre  and  azure  by  Bessarion's  scribe — 
Read  this  line — no,  shame — Homer's  be  the  Greek  ! 
My  Odyssey  in  coarse  black  vivid  type 
WTith  faded  yellow  blossoms  'twixt  page  and  page ; 
"  He  said,  and  on  Antinous  directed 
A  bitter  shaft"— then  blots  a  flower  the  rest! 


BROWNING'S   POEMS.  37 

— Ah,  do  not  mind  that — better  that  will  look 

When  cast  in  bronze — an  Almaign  Kaiser  that, 

Swart-green  and  gold  with  truncheon  based  on  hip — 

This  rather,  turn  to — but  a  check  already — 

Or  you  had  recognized  that  here  you  sit 

As  I  imagined  you,  Hippolyta 

Naked  upon  her  bright  Numidian  horse  ! 

— Forgot  you  this  then  1  "  carve  in  bold  relief," — 

So  you  command  me — "carve  against  I  come 

A  Greek,  bay  filleted  and  thunder  free, 

Rising  beneath  the  lifted  myrtle-branch, 

Whose  turn  arrives  to  praise  Harmodius." — Praise  him! 

Q,uite  round,  a  cluster  of  mere  hands  and  arms 

Thrust  in  all  senses,  all  ways,  from  all  sides, 

Only  consenting  at  the  branches'  end 

They  strain  towards,  serves  for  frame  to  a  sole  face — 

(Place  your  own  face) — the  Praiser's,  who  with  eyes 

Sightless,  so  bend  they  back  to  light  inside 

His  brain  where  visionary  forms  throng  up, 

(Gaze — I  am  your  Harmodius  dead  and  gone,) 

Sings,  minding  not  the  palpitating  arch 

Of  hands  and  arms,  nor  the  quick  drip  of  wine 

From  the  drenched  leaves  o'erhead,  nor  who  cast  off 

Their  violet  crowns  for  him  to  trample  on — 

Sings,  pausing  as  the  patron-ghosts  approve, 

Devoutly  their  unconquerable  hymn — 

But  you  must  say  a  "  well"  to  that — say  "  well" 

Because  you  gaze — am  I  fantastic,  sweet  1 

Gaze  like  my  very  life's  stuff,  marble — marbly 

Even  to  the  silence — and  before  I  found 

The  real  flesh  Phene,  1  inured  myself 

To  see  throughout  all  nature  varied  stuff 

For  better  nature's  birth  by  means  of  art : 

WTith  me,  each  substance  tended  to  one  form 

Of  beauty — to  the  human  Archetype — 

And  every  side  occurred  suggestive  germs 

Of  that— the  tree,  the  flower— why,  take  the  fruit, 

Some  rosy  shape,  continuing  the  peach, 

Curved  beewise  o'er  its  bough,  as  rosy  limbs 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


Depending  nestled  in  the  leaves — and  just 

From  a  cleft  rose-peach  the  whole  Dryad  sprung ! 

But  of  the  stuffs  one  can  be  master  of, 

How  I  divined  their  capabilities 

From  the  soft-rinded  smoothening  facile  chalk 

That  yields  your  outline  to  the  air's  embrace, 

Down  to  the  crisp  imperious  steel,  so  sure 

To  cut  its  one  confided  thought  clean  out 

Of  all  the  world :  but  marble  ! — 'neath  my  tools 

More  pliable  than  jelly — as  it  were 

Some  clear  primordial  creature  dug  from  deep 

In  the  Earth's  heart  where  itself  breeds  itself 

And  whence  all  baser  substance  may  be  worked ; 

Refine  it  off  to  air  you  may — condense  it 

Down  to  the  diamond; — is  not  metal  there 

When  o'er  the  sudden  specks  my  chisel  trips  1 

— Not  flesh— as  flake  off  flake  I  scale,  approach, 

Lay  bare  these  bluish  veins  of  blood  asleep  1 

Lurks  flame  in  no  strange  windings  where  surprised 

By  the  swift  implements  sent  home  at  once, 

Flushes  and  glowings  radiate  and  hover 

About  its  track  7— 

The  girl,  thus  addressed,  feels  the  wings  budding  within  her, 
that  shall  upbear  her  from  the  birth-place  of  pollution  in  whose 
mud  her  young  feet  have  been  imprisoned.  Still,  her  first  words 
reveal  to  the  proud,  passionate,  confiding  genius  the  horrible  de 
ception  that  has  been  practised  on  him.  After  his  first  anguish, 
one  of  Pippa's  songs  steals  in  to  awaken  consoling  thoughts. 
He  feels  that  only  because  his  heart  was  capable  of  noble  trust 
could  it  be  so  deceived  ;  feels  too  that  the  beauty  which  had  en 
chanted  him  could  not  be  a  mere  mask,  but  yet  might  be  vivified 
by  a  soul  worthy  of  it,  and  finds  the  way  to  soar  above  his  own 
pride  and  t'ne  opinions  of  an  often  purblind  world. 

Another  song,  with  which  Pippa  passes,  contains,  in  its  first 
stanza,  this  grand  picture  : 


BROWNING'S   POEMS.  39 

A  king  lived  long  ago, 

In  the  morning  of  the  world, 
When  Earth  was  nigher  Heaven  than  now : 

And  the  King's  locks  curled 
Disparting  o'er  a  forehead  full 

As  the  milk-white  space  'twixt  horn  and  horn 
Of  some  sacrificial  bull. 

Only  calm  as  a  babe  new-born ; 
For  he  has  got  to  a  sleepy  mood, 
So  safe  from  all  decrepitude. 
Age  with  its  bane  so  sure  gone  by, 

(The  gods  so  loved  him  while  he  dreamed) 
That,  having  lived  thus  long  there  seemed 
No  need  the  King  should  ever  die. 

Luigi — No  need  that  sort  of  King  should  ever  die. 

Among  the  rocks  his  city  was ; 

Before  his  palace,  in  the  sun, 
He  sat  to  see  his  people  pass, 

And  judge  them  every  one, 

From  its  threshold  of  smooth  stone. 

This  picture  is  as  good  as  the  Greeks. 

Next  came  a  set  of  Dramatic  Lyrics,  all  more  or  less  good, 
from  which  we  select 


That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive ;  I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now ;  Fra  Pandolf 's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
WTill't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  1     I  said 
"  Fra  Pandolf"  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  that  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so  not  the  first 


40  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not 

Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek  ;  perhaps 

Frfc.  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "  Her  mantle  laps 

"Over  my  Lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "  Paint 

"  Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat ;"  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 

A  heart — how  shall  I  say — too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed ;  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  every  where. 

Sir,  'twas  all  one !     My  favour  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  forward  speech, 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men — good;  but  thanked 

Some  how — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine  hundred  years'  old  name 

With  any  body's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling  1     Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — could  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "  Just  this 

"  Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss, 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping,  and  I  chuse 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  Sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile?    This  grew;  I  gave  commands; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will't  please  you  rise  ?    We'll  meet 

The  company  below  then.     I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed  ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  is  I  avowed 


BROWNING'S  POEMS.  41 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 
Together  down,  Sir !    Notice  Neptune,  though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 
Which  Glaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me. 

CRISTINA. 

To  this  volume  succeeded  "King  Victor  and  King  Charles," 
"The  Return  of  the  Druses,"  "A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,"  and 
"  Colombo's  Birthday." 

The  first  we  do  not  so  much  admire,  but  the  other  three  have 
all  the  same  originality  oT  conception,  delicate  penetration  into 
the  mysteries  of  human  feeling,  atmospheric  individuality,  and 
skill  in  picturesque  detail.  All  four  exhibit  very  high  and  pure 
ideas  of  Woman,  and  a  knowledge  very  rare  in  man  of  the  ways 
in  which  what  is  peculiar  in  her  office  and  nature  works.  Her 
loftiest  elevation  does  not,  in  his  eyes,  lift  her  out  of  nature.  She 
becomes  not  a  mere  saint,  but  the  goddess-queen  of  nature.  Her 
purity  is  not  cold  like  marble,  but  the  healthy,  gentle  energy  of 
the  flower,  instinctively  rejecting  what  is  not  fit  for  it,  with  no  need 
of  disdain  to  dig  a  gulf  between  it  and  the  lower  forms  of  crea 
tion.  Her  office  to  man  is  that  of  the  Muse,  inspiring  him  to  all 
good  thoughts  and  deeds.  The  passions  that  sometimes  agitate 
these  maidens  of  his  verse,  are  the  surprises  of  noble  hearts,  un 
prepared  for  evil,  and  even  their  mistakes  cannot  cost  bitter  tears 
to  their  attendant  angels. 

The  girl  in  the  "  Return  of  the  Druses"  is  the  sort  of  nature 
Byron  tried  to  paint  in  Myrrha.  But  Byron  could  only  paint 
women  as  they  were  to  him.  Browning  can  show  what  they  are 
in  themselves. 

In  "  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon"  we  see  a  lily,  storm-struck, 
half  broken,  but  still  a  lily.  In  "  Colombo's  Birthday"  a  queenly 
rosebud,  which  expands  into  the  full  glowing  rose  before  our 
eyes.  This  is  marvelous  in  this  drama,  how  the  characters  are 
unfolded  before  us  by  the  crisis,  which  not  only  exhibits,  but  calls 


42  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

to  life,  the  higher  passions  and  thoughts  which  were  latent  within 
them. 

We  bless  the  poet  for  these  pictures  of  women,  which,  however 
the  common  tone  of  society,  by  the  grossness  and  levity  of  the 
remarks  bandied  from  tongue  to  tongue,  would  seem  to  say  the 
contrary,  declare  there  is  still  in  the  breasts  of  men  a  capacity 
for  pure  and  exalting  passion, — for  immortal  tenderness. 

But  we  must  hasten  to  conclude  with  some  extracts  from  another 
number  of  "  Dramatic  Lyrics"  lately  received.  These  seem  to 
show  that  Browning  is  attaining  a  more  masterly  clearness  in  ex 
pression,  without  seeking  to  popularize,  or  omitting  to  heed  the 
faintest  whisper  of  his  genius.  He  gains  without  losing  as  he 
advances — a  rare  happiness. 

In  the  former  number  was  a  poem  called  "  The  Cloister,"  and 
in  this  are  two,  "  The  Confessional"  and  the  "  Tomb  at  St.  Prax- 
ed's,"  which  are  the  keenest  yet  a  wisely  true  satire  on  the  forms 
that  hypocrisy  puts  on  in  the  Romish  church.  This  hateful  weed 
grows  rank  in  all  cultivated  gardens,  but  it  seems  to  hide  itself, 
with  great  care  and  adroitness,  beneath  the  unnumbered  forms 
and  purple  gauds  of  that  elaborate  system.  Accordingly,  the 
hypocrites  do  not  seem  so  bad,  individually,  as  in  other  churches, 
and  the  satire  is  continually  softening  into  humour  in  the  "  Tomb 
of  St.  Praxed's,"  with  its  terrible  naturalness  as  to  a  life-long  de 
ception.  Tennyson  has  described  the  higher  kind  with  a  force 
that  will  not  be  surpassed  in  his  Simeon  Stylites,  but  in  this  piece 
of  Browning's,  we  find  the  Flemish  school  of  the  same  vice. 

The  "  Flight  of  the  Duchess,"  in  its  entrancing  revelations  of 
the  human  heart,  is  a  boon  to  think  of.  We  were,  however, 
obliged  to  forbear  further  extracts,  with  the  exception  of  two  from 
the  "  Garden  Fancies."  We  regret  that  these  poems,  with  seve 
ral  others  which  have  been  circulated  in  "  The  Tribune,"  could 
not  find  room  in  the  present  volume. 


BROWNING'S  POEMS.  43 

BELLS  AND  POMEGRANATES  :  By  ROBERT  BROWNING.     No.  VIII  and 
last.     Luria  and  a  Soul's  Tragedy.     London:  Moxon,  Dover-st.  1846. 

IN  closing  this  series  of  dramatic  and  lyrical  sketches,  Brown 
ing  explains  his  plan  and  title  thus  : 

"  Here  ends  my  first  series  of '  Bells  and  Pomegranates,'  and  I  take  the  oppor 
tunity  of  explaining,  in  reply  to  inquiries,  that  I  only  meant  by  that  title  to  in 
dicate  an  endeavour  toward  something  like  an  alternation  or  mixture  of  music 
with  discoursing,  sound  with  sense,  poetry  with  thought,  which  looks  too  ambi 
tious,  thus  expressed,  so  the  symbol  was  preferred.  It  is  little  to  the  purpose 
that  such  is  actually  one  of  the  most  familiar  of  the  Rabbinical  (and  Patristic) 
acceptations  of  the  phrase ;  because  I  confess  that  letting  authority  alone,  I  sup 
posed  the  bare  words  in  such  juxtaposition  would  sufficiently  convey  the  desired 
meaning.  '  Faith  and  good  works'  is  another  fancy  for  instance,  and  perhaps 
no  easier  to  arrive  at ;  yet  Giotto  placed  a  pomegranate  fruit  in  the  hand  of 
Dante,  and  Raflfaelle  crowned  his  Theology  with  blossoms  of  the  same." 

That  the  poet  should  have  supposed  the  symbol  would  be  un 
derstood  at  once,  marks  the  nature  of  his  mind,  a  mind  which 
soars  in  the  creative  element,  and  can  only  be  understood  by  those 
who  are  in  a  state  of  congenial  activity. 

The  two  pieces  before  us  display,  or  rather  betray,  a  deep  and 
growing  acquaintance  with  the  mysteries  of  the  breast.  If  one 
tithe  of  what  informs  this  little  pamphlet  were  brought  out  into 
clear  relief  by  the  plastic  power  of  a  Shakspeare,  the  world  would 
stand  transfixed  before  the  sad  revelation. 

In  the  first  piece,  Luria,  a  Moor,  is  put  in  command  of  the 
Florentine  army  against  Pisa ;  but  spies  are  set  around  him,  and 
the  base  mistress  sits  in  trial  on  the  hero  she  has  won  by  smiles 
to  fight  her  battles.  His  great,  simple,  fiery  nature  is  captivated 
by  the  grace,  deep  sagacity  and  self-possession  of  the  Florentines. 
He  glows  with  delight  at  feeling  in  himself  the  birth  of  a  more 
intellectual  life  beneath  their  influence.  But  when  he  finds  the 
treachery  hid  beneath  all  this  beautiful  sculptured  outside,  he 
stands  amazed,  not  lost,  not  overwhelmed,  but  unable  to  meet  or 


44  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

brave  what  is  so  opposite  to  his  own  soul.  He  is,  indeed,  too  no 
ble  to  resent  or  revenge,  or  look  on  the  case  other  than  as  God 
may 


a  —  In  my  own  East  —  if  you  would  stoop  to  help 

My  barbarous  illustration  —  it  sounds  ill, 

Yet  there's  no  wrong  at  bottom  —  rather  praise. 
Dom.—Wcll  ! 
Luria.  —       We  have  creatures  there  which  if  you  saw 

The  first  time,  you  would  doubtless  marvel  at, 

For  their  surpassing  beauty,  craft  and  strength, 

And  tho'  it  were  a  lively  moment's  shock 

Wherein  you  found  the  purpose  of  their  tongues  — 

That  seemed  innocuous  in  their  lambent  play, 

Yet,  once  made  known,  such  grace  required  a  guard, 

Your  reason  soon  would  acquiesce,  I  think, 

In  th'  Wisdom  which  made  all  things  for  the  best, 

So  take  them,  good  with  ill,  contentedly— 

The  prominent  beauty  with  the  secret  sting. 

I  am  glad  to  have  seen  you,  wondrous  Florentines. 

And  having  seen  them,  and  staked  his  heart  entirely  on  the 
venture,  he  went  through  with  them  —  and  lost.  He  cannot  sur 
vive  the  shock  of  their  treachery.  He  arranges  all  things  nobly 
in  their  behalf,  and  dies,  for  he  was  of  that  mould,  the  "  precious 
porcelain  of  human  clay'5  which 

"  Breaks  with  the  first  fall," 

but  not  without  first  exercising  a  redeeming  power  upon  all  the 
foes  and  traitors  round  him.  His  chivalric  antagonist,  Tiburzio, 
needed  no  conversion,  for  he  is  one  of  the  noble  race  who 

"joy  to  feel 
A  foeman  worthy  of  their  steel," 

and  are  the  best  friends  of  such  a  foeman.  But  the  shrewd, 
worldly  spy,  the  supplanted  rival,  the  woman  who  was  guilty  of 
that  lowest  baseness  of  wishing  to  make  of  a  lover  the  tool  of  her 
purposes,  all  grow  better  by  seeing  the  action  of  this  noble  crea- 


BROWNING'S  POEMS.  45 

ture  under  the  crucifixion  they  have  prepared  for  him  ;  especially 
the  feelings  of  the  rival,  who  learns  from  his  remorse  to  under 
stand  genius  and  magnanimity,  are  admirably  depicted.  Such 
repentance  always  comes  too  late  for  the  one  injured ;  men  kill 
him  first,  then  grow  wiser  and  mourn  ;  this  dreadful  and  frequent 
tragedy  is  shown  in  Luria's  case  with  its  full  weight  of  dark  sig 
nificance,  spanned  by  the  rainbow  beauty  that  springs  from  the 
perception  of  truth  and  nobleness  in  the  victim. 

The  second  piece,  "  A  Soul's  Tragedy,"  is  another  of  the  deep 
est  tragedies — a  man  fancying  himself  good  because  he  was 
harsh,  honourable  because  he  was  not  sweet,  truer  than  the  lovely 
and  loving  natures,  because  unskilled  to  use  their  winning  ways. 
His  self-deception  is  revealed  to  him  by  means  the  most  original 
and  admirably  managed.  Both  these  dramas  are  full  of  genius; 
both  make  the  heart  ache  terribly.  A  text  might  well  suit  the 
cover — a  text  we  must  all  of  us  learn  ever  more  and  more  deeply 
to  comprehend :  "  Let  him  who  thinketh  he  standeth  take  heed 
lest  he  fall." 

We  hope  these  eight  numbers  of  "  Bells  and  Pomegranates" 
will  now  be  reprinted  here.  They  would  make  one  volume  of 
proper  size  to  take  into  the  woods  and  fields. 


LIVES  OF  THE   GREAT   COMPOSERS; 

HAYDN,  MOZART,  HANDEL,  BACH,  BEETHOVEN. 


THE  lives  of  the  musicians  are  imperfectly  written  for  this  ob 
vious  reason.  The  soul  of  the  great  musician  can  only  be  ex 
pressed  in  music.  This  language  is  so  much  more  ready,  flexi 
ble,  full,  and  rapid  than  any  other,  that  we  can  never  expect 
the  minds  of  those  accustomed  to  its  use  to  be  expressed  by  act 
or  word,  with  even  that  degree  of  adequacy,  which  we  find  in 
those  of  other  men.  They  are  accustomed  to  a  higher  stimulus, 
a  more  fluent  existence.  We  must  read  them  in  their  works ; 
this,  true  of  artists  in  every  department,  is  especially  so  of  the 
high-priests  of  sound. 

Yet  the  eye,  which  has  followed  with  rapture  the  flight  of  the 
bird  till  it  is  quite  vanished  in  the  blue  serene,  reverts  with  plea 
sure  to  the  nest,  which  it  finds  of  materials  and  architecture,  that, 
if  wisely  examined,  correspond  entirely  with  all  previously  im 
agined  of  the  songster's  history  and  habits.  The  biography  of 
the  artist  is  a  scanty  gloss  upon  the  grand  text  of  his  works,  but 
we  examine  it  with  a  deliberate  tenderness,  and  could  not  spare 
those  half-effaced  pencil  marks  of  daily  life. 

In  vain  the  healthy  reactions  of  nature  have  so  boldly  in  our 
own  day  challenged  the  love  of  greatness,  and  bid  us  turn  from 
Boswellism  to  read  the  record  of  the  village  clerk.  These  ob 
scure  men,  you  say,  have  hearts  also,  busy  lives,  expanding 
souls.  Study  the  simple  annals  of  the  poor,  and  you  find  there, 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS. 


only  restricted  and  stifled  by  accident,  Milton,  Calderon,  or 
Michel  Angelo.  Precisely  for  that,  precisely  because  we  might  be 
such  as  these,  if  temperament  and  position  had  seconded  the  soul's 
behest,  must  we  seek  with  eagerness  this  spectacle  of  the  occa 
sional  manifestation  of  that  degree  of  development  which  we  call 
hero,  poet,  artist,  martyr.  A  sense  of  the  depths  of  love  and 
pity  in  "  our  obscure  and  private  breasts"  bids  us  demand  to  see 
their  sources  burst  up  somewhere  through  the  lava  of  circum 
stance,  and  Peter  Bell  has  no  sooner  felt  his  first  throb  of  peni 
tence  and  piety,  than  he  prepares  to  read  the  lives  of  the  saints. 

Of  all  those  forms  of  life  which  in  their  greater  achievement 
shadow  forth  what  the  accomplishment  of  our  life  in  the  ages 
must  be,  the  artist's  life  is  the  fairest  in  this,  that  it  weaves  its 
web  most  soft  and  full,  because  of  the  material  most  at  com 
mand.  Like  the  hero,  the  statesman,  the  martyr,  the  artist  dif 
fers  from  other  men  only  in  this,  that  the  voice  of  the  demon 
within  the  breast  speaks  louder,  or  is  more  early  and  steadily 
obeyed  than  by  men  in  general.  But  colors,  and  marble,  and 
paper  scores  are  more  easily  found  to  use,  and  more  under  com 
mand,  than  the  occasions  of  life  or  the  wills  of  other  men,  so 
that  we  see  in  the  poet's  work,  if  not  a  higher  sentiment,  or  a 
deeper  meaning,  a  more  frequent  and  more  perfect  fulfilment 
than  in  him  who  builds  his  temple  from  the  world  day  by  day,  or 
makes  a  nation  his  canvass  and  his  pallette. 

It  is  also  easier  to  us  to  get  the  scope  of  the  artist's  design  and 
its  growth  as  the  area  where  we  see  it  does  not  stretch  vision  be 
yond  its  power.  The  Sybil  of  Michel  Angelo  indeed  shares  the 
growth  of  centuries,  as  much  as  Luther's  Reformation,  but  the 
first  apparition  of  the  one  strikes  both  the  senses  and  the  soul, 
the  other  only  the  latter,  so  we  look  most  easily  and  with  liveli 
est  impression  at  the  Sybil. 

Add  the  benefits  of  rehearsal  and  repetition.  The  grand  Na 
poleon  drama  could  be  acted  but  once,  but  Mozart's  Don  Gio- 


48  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

vanni  presents  to  us  the  same  thought  seven  times  a  week,  if  we 
wish  to  yield  to  it  so  many. 

The  artists  too  are  the  young  children  of  our  sickly  manhood, 
or  wearied  out  old  age.  On  us  life  has  pressed  till  the  form  is 
marred  and  bowed  down,  but  their  youth  is  immortal,  invincible, 
to  us  the  inexhaustible  prophecy  of  a  second  birth.  From  the 
naive  lispings  of  their  uncalculating  lives  are  heard  anew  the 
tones  of  that  mystic  song  we  call  Perfectibility,  Perfection. 

Artist  biographies,  scanty  as  they  are,  are  always  beautiful. 
The  tedious  cavil  of  the  Teuton  cannot  degrade,  nor  the  surley 
superlatives  of  the  Italian  wither  them.  If  any  fidelity  be  pre 
served  in  the  record,  it  always  casts  new  light  on  their  works. 
The  exuberance  of  Italian  praise  is  the  better  extreme  of  the 
two,  for  the  heart,  with  all  its  blunders,  tells  truth  more  easily 
than  the  head.  The  records  before  us  of  the  great  composers 
are  by  the  patient  and  reverent  Germans,  the  sensible,  never  to 
be  duped  Englishman,  or  the  sprightly  Frenchman  ;  but  a  Vasari 
was  needed  also  to  cast  a  broader  sunlight  on  the  scene.  All  ar 
tist  lives  are  interesting.  And  those  of  the  musicians,  peculiarly 
so  to-day,  when  Music  is  the  living,  growing  art.  Sculpture, 
Painting,  Architecture  are  indeed  not  dead,  but  the  life  they  ex 
hibit  is  as  the  putting  forth  of  young  scions  from  an  old  root. 
The  manifestation  is  hopeful  rather  than  commanding.  But  mu 
sic,  after  all  the  wonderful  exploits  of  the  last  century,  grows  and 
towers  yet.  Beethoven  towering  far  above  our  heads,  still  with 
colossal  gesture  points  above.  Music  is  pausing  now  to  explain, 
arrange,  or  explore  the  treasures  so  rapidly  accumulated  ;  but 
how  great  the  genius  thus  employed,  how  vast  the  promise  for 
the  next  revelation  !  Beethoven  seems  to  have  chronicled  all  the 
sobs,  the  heart-heavings,  and  god-like  Promethean  thefts  of  the 
Earth-spirit.  Mozart  has  called  to  the  sister  stars,  as  Handel  and 
Haydn  have  told  to  other  spheres  what  has  been  actually  performed 
in  this  ;  surely  they  will  answer  through  the  next  magician. 


LIVES   OF   THE   GREAT   COMPOSERS.  49 


The  thought  of  the  law  that  supersedes  all  thoughts,  which 
pierces  us  the  moment  we  have  gone  far  in  any  department  of 
knowledge  or  creative  genius,  seizes  and  lifts  us  from  the  ground 
in  music.  "  Were  but  this  known  all  would  be  accomplished," 
is  sung  to  us  ever  in  the  triumphs  of  harmony.  What  the  other 
arts  indicate  and  philosophy  infers,  this  all-enfolding  language 
declares,  nay  publishes,  and  we  lose  all  care  for  to-morrow  or 
modern  life  in  the  truth  averred  of  old,  that  all  truth  is  com- 
prised  in  music  and  mathematics. 

By  one  pervading  spirit 
Of  tones  and  numbers  all  things  are  controlled, 

As  sages  taught  where  faith,  was  found  to  merit 
Initiation  in  that  mystery  old. 

WORDSWORTH.     "  Stanzas  on  the  power  of  sound." 

A  very  slight  knowledge  of  music  makes  it  the  best  means  of 
interpretation.  We  meet  our  friend  in  a  melody  as  in  a  glance 
of  the  eye,  far  beyond  where  words  have  strength  to  climb ;  we 
explain  by  the  corresponding  tone  in  an  instrument  that  trait  in 
our  admired  picture,  for  which  no  sufficiently  subtle  analogy  had 
yet  been  found.  Botany  had  never  touched  our  true  knowledge 
of  our  favourite  flower,  but  a  symphony  displays  the  same  atti 
tude  and  hues  ;  the  philosophic  historian  had  failed  to  explain 
the  motive  of  our  favourite  hero,  but  every  bugle  calls  and  every 
trumpet  proclaims  him.  He  that  hath  ears  to  hear,  let  him  hear  ! 

Of  course  we  claim  for  music  only  a  greater  rapidity,  full 
ness,  and,  above  all,  delicacy  of  utterance.  All  is  in  each  and 
each  in  all,  so  that  the  most  barbarous  stammering  of  the  Hot 
tentot  indicates  the  secret  of  man,  as  clearly  as  the  rudest 
zoophyte  the  perfection  of  organized  being,  or  the  first  stop  on 
the  reed  the  harmonies  of  heaven.  But  music,  by  the  ready 
medium,  the  stimulus  and  the  upbearing  elasticity  it  offers  for  the 
inspirations  of  thought,  alone  seems  to  present  a  living  form 
rather  than  a  dead  monument  to  the  desires  of  Genius. 

PART  II.  3 


50  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

The  feeling  naturally  given  by  an  expression  so  facile  of  the 
identity  and  universality  of  all  thought,  every  thought,  is  beauti 
fully  expressed  in  this  anecdote  of  Haydn. 

When  about  to  compose  a  symphony  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
animating  his  genius  by  imagining  some  little  romance.  An 
interesting  account  of  one  of  these  is  given  in  Bombet's  life  of 
Haydn,  p.  75. 

"  But  when  his  object  was  not  to  express  any  particular  affection,  or  to 
paint  any  particular  images,  all  subjects  were  alike  to  him.  'The  whole 
art  consists,'  said  he,  '  in  taking  up  a  subject  and  pursuing  it.'  Often 
when  a  friend  entered  as  he  was  about  to  compose  a  piece,  he  would  say 
with  a  smile,  '  Give  me  a  subject,' — '  Give  a  subject  to  Haydn  !  who  would 
have  the  courage  to  do  so  ?'  '  Come,  never  mind,'  he  would  say,  '  give  me 
anything  you  can  think  of,'  and  you  were  obliged  to  obey." 

"  Many  of  his  astonishing  quartettes  exhibit  marks  of  this  (piece  of  dex 
terity,  the  French  Chevalier  is  pleased  to  call  it.)  They  commence  with 
the  most  insignificant  idea,  but,  by  degrees,  this  idea  assumes  a  character  ; 
it  strengthens,  increases,  extends  itself,  and  the  dwarf  becomes  a  giant  be 
fore  our  wondering  eyes." 

This  is  one  of  the  high  delights  received  from  a  musical  com 
position  more  than  from  any  other  work  of  art,  except  perhaps 
the  purest  effusions  of  lyric  poetry,  that  you  feel  at  once  both  the 
result  and  the  process.  The  musician  enjoys  the  great  advan 
tage  of  being  able  to  excite  himself  to  compose  by  his  instrument. 
This  gives  him  a  great  advantage  above  those  who  are  obliged  to 
execute  their  designs  by  implements  less  responsive  and  exciting. 
Bach  did  not  consider  his  pupils  as  at  all  advanced,  till  they 
could  compose  from  the  pure  mental  harmony,  without  the  out 
ward  excitement  of  the  instrument ;  but,  though  in  the  hours  of 
inspiration  the  work  grows  of  itself,  yet  the  instrument  must  be 
of  the  greatest  use  to  multiply  and  prolong  these  hours.  We 
find  that  all  these  great  composers  were  continually  at  the  piano. 
Haydn  seated  himself  there  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and 
Beethoven,  when  so  completely  deaf,  that  he  could  neither  tune 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  51 

his  violin  and  piano,  nor  hear  the  horrible  discords  he  made  upon 
them,  stimulated  himself  continually  by  the  manual  utterance  to 
evolution  of  the  divine  harmonies  which  were  lost  forever  to  his 
bodily  ear. 

It  is  mentioned  by  Bombet,  as  another  advantage  which  the 
musician  possesses  over  other  artists,  that — 

"  His  productions  are  finished  as  soon  as  imagined.  Thus  Haydn,  who 
abounded  in  such  beautiful  ideas,  incessantly  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of 
creation.  The  poet  shares  this  advantage  with  the  composer ;  but  the 
musician  can  work  faster.  A  beautiful  ode,  a  beautiful  symphony,  need 
only  be  imagined,  to  cause,  in  the  mind  of  the  author,  that  secret  admira 
tion,  which  is  the  life  and  soul  of  artists.  But  in  the  studies  of  the  mili 
tary  man,  of  the  architect,  the  sculptor,  the  painter,  there  is  not  invention 
enough  for  them  to  be  fully  satisfied  with  themselves ;  further  labors  are 
necessary.  The  best  planned  enterprise  may  fail  in  the  execution  ;  the 
best  conceived  picture  may  be  ill  painted  ;  all  this  leaves  in  the  mind  of 
the  inventor  an  obscurity,  a  feeling  of  uncertainty,  which  renders  the 
pleasure  of  creation  less  complete.  Haydn,  on  the  contrary,  in  imagining 
a  symphony,  was  perfectly  happy ;  there  only  remained  the  physical 
pleasure  of  hearing  it  performed,  and  the  moral  pleasure  of  seeing  it 
applauded." 

Plausible  as  this  comparison  appears  at  first;  the  moment  you 
look  at  an  artist  like  Michel  Angelo,  who,  by  deep  studies  and 
intensity  of  survey,  had  attained  such  vigor  of  conception  and 
surety  of  hand,  that  forms  sprang  forth  under  his  touch  as  fresh, 
as  original,  and  as  powerful,  as  on  the  first  days  when  there  was 
light  upon  the  earth,  so  that  he  could  not  turn  his  pencil  this  way 
or  that,  but  these  forms  came  upon  the  paper  as  easily  as  plants 
from  the  soil  where  the  fit  seed  falls, — at  Raphael,  who  seemed 
to  develop  at  once  in  his  mind  the  germ  of  all  possible  images,  so 
that  shapes  flowed  from  his  hand  plenteous  and  facile  as  drops  of 
water  from  the  open  sluice,  we  see  that  the  presence  of  the  high 
est  genius  makes  all  mediums  alike  transparent,  and  that  the 
advantages  of  one  over  the  other  respect  only  the  more  or  less 


52  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

rapid  growth  of  the  artist,  and  the  more  or  less  lively  effect  on 
the  mind  of  the  beholder.  All  high  art  says  but  one  thing  ;  but 
this  is  said  with  more  or  less  pleasure  by  the  artist,  felt  with 
more  or  less  pleasure  by  the  beholder,  according  to  the  flexibility 
and  fulness  of  the  language. 

As  Bombet's  lives  of  Haydn  and  Mozart  are  accessible  here 
through  an  American  edition,  I  shall  not  speak  of  these  masters 
with  as  much  particularity  as  of  the  three  other  artists.  Bom- 
bet's  book,  though  superficial,  and  in  its  attempts  at  criticism 
totally  wanting  in  that  precision  which  can  only  be  given  by  a 
philosophical  view  of  the  subject,  is  lively,  informed  by  a  true 
love  for  beauty,  and  free  from  exaggeration  as  to  the  traits  of 
life  which  we  most  care  for.  The  life  of  Haydn  is  the  better 
of  the  two,  for  the  calm  and  equable  character  of  this  great  man 
made  not  much  demand  on  insight.  It  displays  throughout  the 
natural  decorum  and  freedom  from  servile  and  conventional  re 
straints,  the  mingling  of  dignity  and  tenderness,  the  singleness 
of  aim,  and  childlike  simplicity  in  action  proper  to  the  artist  life. 
It  flowed  a  gentle,  bounteous  river,  broadening  ever  beneath  the 
smiles  of  a  "  calm  pouring  sun."  A  manly  uniformity  makes  his 
life  intelligible  alike  to  the  genius  and  the  citizen.  Set  the  picture 
in  its  proper  frame,  and  we  think  of  him  with  great  pleasure,  sit 
ting  down  nicely  dressed,  with  the  diamond  on  his  finger  given 
him  by  the  King  of  Prussia,  to  compose  the  Creation,  or  the 
Seven  Words.  His  life  was  never  little,  never  vehement,  and  an 
early  calm  hallowed  the  gush  of  his  thoughts.  We  have  no 
regret,  no  cavil,  little  thought  for  this  life  of  Haydn.  It  is  sim 
ply  the  fitting  vestibule  to  the  temple  of  his  works. 

The  healthy  energy  of  his  nature  is  well  characterized  by 
what  is  said  of  his  "  obstinate  joy." 

"  The  magic  of  his  style  seems  to  me  to  consist  in  a  predominating 
character  of  liberty  and  joy.  This  joy  of  Haydn  is  a  perfectly  natural, 
pure,  and  continual  exaltation  ;  it  reigns  in  the  allegros,  it  is  perceptible 
even  in  the  grave  parts,  and  pervades  the  andantes  in  a  sensible  degree 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS. 


**  In  these  compositions,  where  it  is  evident  from  the  rhythm,  the  tone, 
and  the  general  character,  that  the  author  intends  to  inspire  melancholy, 
this  obstinate  joy,  being  unable  to  show  itself  openly,  is  transformed  into 
energy  and  strength.  Observe,  this  sombre  gravity  is  not  pain  ;  it  is  joy 
constrained  to  disguise  itself  which  might  be  called  the  concentrated  joy 
of  a  savage  ;  but  never  sadness,  dejection,  or  melancholy,  Haydn  has 
never  been  really  melancholy  more  than  two  or  three  times  ;  in  a  verse  of 
his  Stabat  Mater,  and  in  two  of  the  adagios  of  the  Seven  Words. 

"  This  is  the  reason  why  he  has  never  excelled  in  dramatic  music. 
Without  melancholy,  there  can  be  no  impassioned  music." 

All  the  traits  of  Haydn's  course,  his  voluntary  servitude  to 
Porpora,  his  gratitude  shown  at  so  dear  a  rate  to  his  Maecenas, 
the  wig-maker,  his  easy  accommodation  to  the  whimg  of  the 
Esterhazies,  arid  his  wise  views  of  the  advantage  derived  to  his 
talent  from  being  forced  to  compose  nightly  a  fresh  piece  for  the 
baryton  of  Prince  Nicholas,  the  economy  of  his  time,  and  content 
with  limited  means,  each  and  all  show  the  man  moderate  be 
cause  so  rich,  modest  because  so  clear-sighted,  robust,  ample, 
nobly  earnest,  rather  than  fiery  and  aspiring.  It  is  a  great 
character,  one  that  does  not  rouse  us  to  ardent  admiration,  but 
always  commands,  never  disappoints.  Bombet  compares  him  in 
his  works  to  Ariosto,  and  the  whole  structure  of  his  character 
reminds  us  of  the  "  Ariosto  of  the  North,"  Walter  Scott.  Both 
are  examples  of  that  steady  and  harmonious  action  of  the  facul 
ties  all  through  life,  so  generally  supposed  inconsistent  with  gifts 
like  theirs  ;  both  exhibit  a  soil  fertile  from  the  bounties  of  its 
native  forests,  and  unaided  by  volcanic  action. 

The  following  passage  is  (to  say  nothing  of  its  humor)  very 
significant  on  the  topic  so  often  in  controversy,  as  to  whether 
the  descriptive  powers  of  music  are  of  the  objective  or  subjective 
character. 

Of  an  opera,  composed  by  Haydn  to  Curtz's  order,  at  the  age 
of  nineteen — 


54  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

*'  Haydn  often  says,  that  he  had  more  trouble  in  finding  out  a  mode  of 
representing  the  waves  in  a  tempest  in  this  opera,  than  he  afterwards  had 
in  writing  fugues  with  a  double  subject.  Curtz,  who  had  spirit  and  taste, 
was  difficult  to  please  ;  but  there  was  also  another  obstacle.  Neither  of 
the  two  authors  had  ever  seen  either  sea  or  storm.  How  can  a  man  de 
scribe  what  he  knows  nothing  about  ?  If  this  happy  art  could  be  dis 
covered,  many  of  our  great  politicians  would  talk  better  about  virtue. 
Curtz,  all  agitation,  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  where  the  composer 
was  seated  at  the  piano  forte.  '  Imagine,'  said  he, '  a  mountain  rising,  and 
then  a  valley  sinking ;  and  then  another  mountain,  and  then  another 
valley  ;  the  mountains  and  the  valleys  follow  one  after  another,  with  rapid 
ity,  and  at  every  moment,  alps  and  abysses  succeed  each  other.' 

"  This  fine  description  was  of  no  avail.  In  vain  did  harlequin  add  the 
thunder  and  lightning.  «  Come  describe  for  me  all  these  horrors,'  he  re 
peated  incessantly, «  but  particularly  represent  distinctly  these  mountains 
and  valleys.' 

"  Haydn  drew  his  fingers  rapidly  over  the  key  board,  ran  through  the 
semitones,  tried  abundance  of  sevenths,  passed  from  the  lowest  notes  of 
the  bass  to  the  highest  of  the  treble.  Curtz  was  still  dissatisfied.  At 
last,  the  young  snan,  out  of  all  patience,  extended  his  hands  to  the  two 
ends  of  the  harpsichord,  and,  bringing  them  rapidly  together,  exclaimed 
*  The  devil  take  the  tempest.'  '  That's  it,  that's  it,'  cried  the  harlequin, 
springing  upon  his  neck  and  nearly  stifling  him.  Haydn  added,  that  when 
he  crossed  the  Straits  of  Dover,  in  bad  weather,  many  years  afterwards, 
he  laughed  during  the  whole  of  the  passage  in  thinking  of  the  storm  in 
The  Devil  on  two  Sticks. 

" «  But  how,'  said  I  to  him,  « is  it  possible,  by  sounds,  to  describe  a  tem 
pest,  and  that  distinctly  too  ?  As  this  great  man  is  indulgence  itself,  I 
added,  that,  by  imitating  the  peculiar  tones  of  a  man  in  terror  or  despair, 
an  author  of  genius  may  communicate  to  an  auditor  the  sensations 
which  the  sight  of  a  storm  would  cause  ;  but,'  said  I,  '  music  can  no 
more  represent  a  tempest,  than  say  «  Mr.  Hadyn  lives  near  the  barrier  of 
Schonbrunn.'  «  You  may  be  right,'  replied  he,  <  but  recollect,  nevertheless, 
that  words  and  especially  scenery  guide  the  imagination  of  the  spectator.'" 

Let  it  be  an  encouragement  to  the  timidity  of  youthful  genius 
to  see  that  an  eaglet  like  Haydn  has  ever  groped  and  flown  so 
sidewise  from  the  aim. 


LIVES   OF  THE   GREAT  CO 


In  later  days,  though  he  had  the  usual  incl 
DUS  genius,  as  to  giving  a  reason  for  the  faith  thai 
had  also  its  perfect  self-reliance.  He,  too,  would  have  said, 
when  told  that  the  free  expression  of  a  thought  was  contrary  to 
rule,  that  he  would  make  it  a  rule  then,  and  had  no  reason  to 
give  why  he  put  a  phrase  or  note  here,  and  thus,  except  "  It  was 
best  so.  It  had  the  best  effect  so."  The  following  anecdote  ex 
hibits  in  a  spirited  manner  the  contrast  between  the  free  genius 
and  the  pedant  critic, 

"Before  Hadyn  had  lost  his  interest  in  conversation,  he  related  with 
pleasure  many  anecdotes  respecting  his  residence  in  London.  A  noble 
man  passionately  fond  of  music,  according  to  his  own  account,  came  to 
him  one  morning,  and  asked  him  to  give  him  some  lessons  in  counter 
point,  at  a  guinea  a  lesson.  Haydn,  seeing  that  he  had  some  knowledge 
of  music,  accepted  his  proposal.  '  When  shall  we  begin  ?'  '  Immediate 
ly,  if  you  please,'  replied  the  nobleman  ;  and  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  a 
quartett  of  Haydn's.  '  For  the  first  lesson,'  continued  he,  *  let  us  examine 
this  quartett,  and  tell  me  the  reason  of  certain  modulations,  and  of  the 
general  management  of  the  composition,  which  I  cannot  altogether  ap 
prove,  since  it  is  contrary  to  the  rules.' 

"  Haydn,  a  little  surprised,  said,  that  he  was  ready  to  answer  his  ques 
tions.  The  nobleman  began,  and,  from  the  very  first  bar,  found  something 
to  remark  upon  every  note.  Haydn,  with  whom  invention  was  a  habit, 
and  who  was  the  opposite  of  a  pedant,  found  himself  a  good  deal  embar 
rassed,  and  replied  continually,  '  I  did  so  because  it  has  a  good  effect ;  I 
have  placed  this  passage  here,  because  I  think  it  suitable.'  The  English 
man,  in  whose  opinion  these  replies  were  nothing  to  the  purpose,  still 
returned  to  his  proofs,  and  demonstrated  very  clearly,  that  his  quartett  was 
good  for  nothing.  '  But,  my  Lord,  arrange  this  quartett  in  your  own  way  ; 
hear  it  played,  and  you  will  then  see  which  of  the  two  is  best.'  *  How 
can  yours,  which  is  contrary  to  the  rules  be  the  best  ? '  '  Because  it  is 
the  most  agreeable.'  My  Lord  still  returned  to  the  subject.  Haydn 
replied  as  well  as  he  was  able  ;  but,  at  last,  out  of  patience,  *  I  see,  my 
Lord,'  said  he,  '  that  it  is  you  who  are  so  good  as  to  give  lessons  to  me,  and 
1  am  obliged  to  confess,  that  I  do  not  merit  the  honour  of  having  such  a 
master.'  The  advocate  of  the  rules  went  away,  and  cannot  to  this  day 


56  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

understand  how  an  author,  who  adheres  to  them,  should  fail  of  producing 
a  Matrimonio  Segreto." 

I  must  in  this  connexion,  introduce  a  passage  from  the  life  of 
Handel.  "  The  highest  effort  of  genius  here  (in  music)  consists 
in  direct  violations  of  rule.  The  very  first  answer  of  the 
fugue  in  the  overture  to  Mucius  Scsevola  atTords  an  instance  of 
this  kind.  Geminiani.  the  strictest  observer  of  rule,  was  so 
charmed  with  this  direct  transgression  of  it,  that,  on  hearing  its 
effect,  he  cried  out,  Quel  semi.tono  (meaning  the  f  sharp)  vale  un 
mondo.  That  semitone  is  worth  a  world." 

I  should  exceedingly  like  to  quote  the  passage  on  Haydn's 
quartetts,  and  the  comparison  between  the  effect  produced  by  one 
of  his  and  one  of  Beethoven's.  But  room  always  fails  us  in  this 
little  magazine.  I  cannot,  however,  omit  a  passage,  which  gave 
rne  singular  pleasure,  referring  to  Haydn's  opinion  of  the  impor 
tance  of  the  air.  For  the  air  is  the  thought  of  the  piece,  and 
ought  never  to  be  disparaged  from  a  sense  of  the  full  flow  of  con 
cord. 

"  Who  would  think  it  ?  This  great  man,  under  whose  authority  our 
miserable  pedants  of  musicians,  without  genius,  would  fain  shelter  them 
selves,  repeated  incessantly  ;  '  Let  your  air  bo  good,  and  your  composi 
tion,  whatever  it  be,  will  be  so  likewise,  and  will  assuredly  please.' 

"  '  It  is  the  soul  of  music,'  continued  he  ;  'it  is  the  life,  the  spirit,  the 
essence  of  a  composition.  Without  this,  Tartini  may  nnd  out  the  most 
singular  and  learned  chords,  but  nothing  is  heard  but  a  labored  sound  ; 
which,  though  it  may  not  oflend  the  ear,  leaves  the  head  empty  and  the 
heart  cold.' " 

The  following  passage  illustrates  happily  the  principle. 
"Art  is  called  Art,  because  it  is  not  Nature." 

"  In  music  the  best  physical  imitation  is,  perhaps,  that  which  only  just 
indicates  its  object ;  which  shows  it  to  us  through  a  veil,  and  abstains  from 
scrupulously  representing  nature  exactly  as  she  is.  This  kind  of  imita 
tion  is  the  perfection  of  the  descriptive  department.  You  are  aware,  my 
friend,  that  all  the  arts  are  founded  to  a  certain  degree  on  what  is  not 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  57 

true ;  an  obscure  doctrine,  notwithstanding  its  apparent  clearness,  but 
from  which  the  most  important  principles  are  derived.  It  is  thus  that 
from  a  dark  grotto  springs  the  river,  which  is  to  water  vast  provinces. 
You  have  more  pleasure  in  seeing  a  beautiful  picture  of  the  garden  of  the 
Tuilleries,  than  in  beholding  the  same  garden,  faithfully  reflected  from  one 
of  the  mirrors  of  the  chateau ;  yet  the  scene  displayed  in  the  mirror  has 
far  more  variety  of  colouring  than  the  painting,  were  it  the  work  of  Claude 
Lorraine  ;  the  figures  have  motion  ;  everything  is  more  true  to  nature ; 
still  you  cannot  help  preferring  the  picture.  A  skilful  artist  never  departs 
from  that  degree  of  falsity  which  is  allowed  in  the  art  he  professes.  He 
is  well  aware,  that  it  is  not  by  imitating  nature  to  such  a  degree  as  to  pro 
duce  deception,  that  the  arts  give  pleasure ;  he  makes  a  distinction  be 
tween  those  accurate  daubs,  called  eye-traps,  and  the  St.  Cecilia  of 
Raphael.  Imitation  should  produce  the  effect  which  the  object  imitated 
would  have  upon  us,  did  it  strike  us  in  those  fortunate  moments  of  sensi 
bility  and  enjoyment,  which  awaken  the  passions." 

The  fault  of  this  passage  consists  in  the  inaccurate  use  of  the 
words  true  and  false.  Bombet  feels  distinctly  that  truth  to  the 
ideal  is  and  must  be  above  truth  to  the  actual ;  it  is  only  because 
he  feels  this,  that  he  enjoys  the  music  of  Haydn  at  all  ;  and  yet 
from  habits  of  conformity  and  complaisance  he  well  nigh  mars 
his  thought  by  use  of  the  phraseology  of  unthinking  men,  who 
apprehend  no  truth  beyond  that  of  facts  apparent  to  the  senses. 

Let  us  pass  to  the  life  of  Handel.  We  can  but  glance  at  these 
great  souls,  each  rich  enough  in  radiating  power  to  be  the  centre 
of  a  world  ;  and  can  only  hope  to  indicate,  not  declare,  their 
different  orbits  and  relations.  Haydn  and  Mozart  both  looked  to 
Handel  with  a  religious  veneration.  Haydn  was  only  unfolded 
to  his  greatest  efforts  after  hearing,  in  his  latest  years,  Handel's 
great  compositions  in  England. 

"  One  day  at  Prince  Schwartzenberg's,  when  Handel's  Messiah  was 
performed,  upon  expressing  my  admiration  of  one  of  the  sublime  cho 
ruses  of  that  work,  Haydn  said  to  me  thoughtfully,  This  man  is  the  fa 
ther  of  us  all. 

"  I  am  convinced,  that,  if  he  had  not  studied  Handel,  he  would  never 

3* 


58  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

have  written  the  Creation  ;  his  genius  was  fired  by  that  of  thia  master. 
It  was  remarked  by  every  one  here,  that,  after  his  return  from  London, 
there  was  more  grandeur  in  his  ideas ;  in  short,  he  approached,  as  far  as 
is  permitted  to  human  genius,  the  unattainable  object  of  his  songs.  Han 
del  is  simple  ;  his  accompaniments  are  written  in  three  parts  only  ;  but, 
to  use  a  Neapolitan  phrase  of  Gluck's,  There  is  not  a  note  th'dt  does  not 
draw  blood.''' — Bombet,  p.  180. 

"  Mozart  most  esteemed  Porpora,  Durante,  Leo,  and  Alessandro  Scar 
latti,  but  he  placed  Handel  above  them  all.  He  knew  the  principal  works 
of  that  great  master  by  heart.  He  was  accustomed  to  say,  Handel  knows 
best  of  all  of  us  what  is  capable  of  producing  a  great  effect.  When  he 
chooses,  he  strikes  like  the  thunderbolt." — Ibid.  p.  291. 

Both  these  expressions,  that  of  Gluck  and  that  of  Mozart,  hap 
pily  characterize  Handel  in  the  vigor  and  grasp  of  his  genius,  as 
Haydn,  in  the  amplitude  and  sunny  majesty  of  his  career,  is 
well  compared  to  the  gazing,  soaring  eagle. 

I  must  insert  other  beautiful  tributes  to  the  genius  of  Handel. 

After  the  quarrel  between  Handel  and  many  of  the  English 
nobles,  which  led  to  their  setting  up  an  opera  in  opposition  to  his, 
they  sent  to  engage  Hasse  and  Porpora,  as  their  composers. 
When  Hasse  was  invited  over,  the  first  question  he  asked  was, 
whether  Handel  was  dead.  Being  answered  in  the  negative, 
he  long  refused  to  come,  thinking  it  impossible  that  a  nation, 
which  might  claim  the  benefit  of  Handel's  genius,  could  ask  aid 
from  any  other. 

When  Handel  was  in  Italy,  Scarlatti  saw  him  first  at  the  car- 
nival,  playing  on  the  harpsichord,  in  his  mask.  Scarlatti 
immediately  affirmed  it  could  be  none  but  the  famous  Saxon  or 
the  devil. 

Scarlatti,  pursuing  the  acquaintance,  tried  Handel's  powers 
in  every  way. 

"  When  they  came  to  the  organ,  not  a  doubt  remained  as  to  which  the 
preference  belonged.  Scarlatti  himself  declared  the  superiority  of  his  an 
tagonist,  and  owned  that  until  he  had  heard  him  upon  this  instrument,  he 


LIVES   OF   THE   GREAT   COMPOSERS.  59 

had  no  conception  of  his  powers.  So  greatly  was  he  struck  with  his  pe 
culiar  way  of  playing,  that  he  followed  him  all  over  Italy,  and  was  never 
so  happy  as  when  he  was  with  him.  And  ever  afterwards,  Scarlatti,  as 
often  as  he  was  admired  for  his  own  great  execution,  would  mention  J  Ian- 
del,  and  cross  himself  in  token  of  veneration." — Life  of  Handel. 

These  noble  rivalries,  this  tender  enthusiastic  conviction  of 
the  superiority  of  another,  this  religious 

— "  joy  to  feel 
A  foeman  worthy  of  our  steel," 

one  instance  of  which  delights  us  more  than  all  the  lonely 
achievements  of  intellect,  as  showing  the  twofold  aspect  of  the 
soul,  and  linking  every  nature,  generous  enough  for  sym 
pathy,  in  the  golden  chain,  which  upholds  the  earth  and  the  hea 
vens,  are  found  everywhere  in  the  history  of  high  genius.  Only 
the  little  men  of  mere  talent  deserve  a  place  at  Le  Sage's  sup 
per  of  the  authors.  Genius  cannot  be  forever  on  the  wing  ;  it 
craves  a  home,  a  holy  land  ;  it  carries  reliquaries  in  the  bosom  ; 
it  craves  cordial  draughts  from  the  goblets  of  other  pilgrims.  It 
is  always  pious,  always  chivalnc ;  the  artist,  like  the  Preux, 
throws  down  his  shield  to  embrace  the  antagonist,  who  has  been 
able  to  pierce  it ;  and  the  greater  the  genius,  the  more  do  we  glow 
with  delight  at  his  power  of  feeling, — need  of  feeling  reverence 
not  only  for  the  creative  soul,  but  for  its  manifestation  through 
fellow  men.  What  melody  of  Beethoven's  is  more  melodious, 
than  his  letter  of  regal  devotion  to  Cherubini,  or  the  transports 
with  which  he  calls  out  on  first  hearing  the  compositions  of 
Schubert ;  "  Wahrlich  in  dem  Schubert  wohnt  ein  gottlicher 
Funke."  Truly  in  Schubert  dwells  a  divine  fire.* 

But  to  return  to  Handel.     The  only  biography  of  him  I  have 

*  As  Schubert's  music  begins  to  be  known  among  ourselves,  it  may  be 
interesting  to  record  the  names  of  those  songs,  which  so  affected  Beetho 
ven.  They  are  Ossian's  Gesange,  Die  Burgschaft,  Die  junge  Nonne,  and 
Die  Grenze  der  Menschheit. 


60  PAPERS  ON   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

seen  is  a  little  volume  from  the  library  of  the  University  at 
Cambridge,  as  brief,  and,  in  the  opinion  of  the  friend  who  brought 
it  to  me,  as  dry  and  scanty  as  possible.  I  did  not  find  it  so.  It 
is  written  with  the  greatest  simplicity,  in  the  style  of  the  days  of 
Addison  and  Steele  ;  and  its  limited  technology  contrasts  strongly 
with  the  brilliancy  of  statement  and  infinite  "  nuances"  of  the 
present  style  of  writing  on  such  subjects.  But  the  writer  is  free 
from  exaggeration,  without  being  timid  or  cold  ;  and  he  brings 
to  his  work  the  requisites  of  a  true  feeling  of  the  genius  of 
Handel,  and  sympathy  with  his  personal  character.  This  lies, 
indeed,  so  deep,  that  it  never  occurs  to  him  to  give  it  distinct 
expression  ;  it  is  only  implied  in  his  selection,  as  judicious  as 
simple,  of  anecdotes  to  illustrate  it. 

•For  myself,  I  like  a  dry  book,  such  as  is  written  by  men  who 
give  themselves  somewhat  tamely  to  the  task  in  hand.  I  like  to 
read  a  book  written  by  one  who  had  no  higher  object  than  mere 
curiosity,  or  affectionate  sympathy,  and  never  draws  an  infer 
ence.  Then  I  am  sure  of  the  facts  more  nakedly  true,  than 
when  the  writer  has  any  theory  of  his  own,  and  have  the  excite 
ment  all  the  way  of  putting  them  into  new  relations.  The  present 
is  the  gentle,  faithful  narrative  of  a  private  friend.  He  does  not 
give  his  name,  nor  pretend  to  anything  more  than  a  slight  CxSsay 
towards  giving  an  account  of  so  great  a  phenomenon  as  Handel. 

The  vigour,  the  ready  decision,  and  independence  of  Handel's 
character  are  displayed  in  almost  every  trait  of  his  youthful  years. 
At  seven  years  old  he  appears  as  if  really  inspired  by  a  guardian 
genius.  His  father  was  going  to  Weissenfels,  to  visit  an  elder 
son,  established  at  court  there.  He  refused  to  take  the  little 
Handel,  thinking  it  would  be  too  much  trouble.  The  boy,  find 
ing  tears  and  entreaties  of  no  avail,  stole  out  and  followed  the 
carriage  on  foot.  When  his  father  perceived  him  persist  in  this, 
he  could  resist  no  longer,  but  took  him  into  the  carriage  and 
carried  him  to  Weissenfels.  There  the  Duke,  hearing  him  play 


LIVES   OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  61 

by  accident  in  the  chapel,  and  finding  it  was  but  a  little  child, 
who  had  been  obliged  too  to  cultivate  his  talent  by  stealth,  in 
opposition  to  the  wishes  of  his  father,  interfered,  and  removed  all 
obstruction  from  the  course  of  his  destiny. 

Like  all  the  great  musicians  he  was  precocious.  This  neces 
sarily  results  from  the  more  than  usually  delicate  organization 
they  must  possess,  though,  fortunately  for  the  art,  none  but  Mo 
zart  has  burnt  so  early  with  that  resplendence  that  prematurely 
exhausted  his  lamp  of  life.  At  nine  years  of  age  Handel  com- 
posed  in  rule,  and  played  admirably  on  more  than  one  instru 
ment.  At  fifteen  he  insisted  on  playing  the  first  harpsichord  at 
the  Hamburg  opera  house,  and  again  his  guardian  genius  inter 
fered  in  a  manner  equally  picturesque  and  peculiar. 

*'  The  elder  candidate  was  not  unfit  for  the  office,  and  insisted  on  the 
right  of  succession.  Handel  seemed  to  have  no  plea,  but  that  of  natural 
superiority,  of  which  he  was  conscious,  and  from  which  he  would  not 
recede." 

Parties  ran  high ;  the  one  side  unwilling  that  a  boy  should 
arrogate  a  place  above  a  much  older  man,  one  who  had  a  prior 
right  to  the  place,  the  other  maintaining  that  the  opera-house 
could  not  afford  to  lose  so  great  a  composer  as  Handel  gave 
promise  of  becoming,  for  a  punctilio  of  this  kind.  Handel  at  last 
obtained  the  place. 

"  Determined  to  make  Handel  pay  dear  for  his  priority,  his  rival  stifled 
his  rage  for  the  present,  only  to  wait  an  opportunity  of  giving  it  full  vent. 
One  day,  as  they  were  coming  out  of  the  orchestra,  he  made  a  push  at 
Handel  with  a  sword,  which  being  aimed  full  at  his  heart,  would  forever 
have  removed  him  from  the  office  he  had  usurped,  but  for  the  friendly 
score  which  he  accidentally  carried  in  his  bosom,  and  through  which  to 
have  forced  the  weapon  would  have  demanded  the  might  of  Ajax  himself. 
Had  this  happened  in  the  early  ages,  not  a  mortal  but  would  have  been 
persuaded  that  Apollo  himself  had  interfered  to  preserve  him,  in  the 
shape  of  a  music-book." 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


The  same  guardian  demon  presided  always  over  his  outward 
fortunes.  His  life,  like  that  of  Haydn,  was  one  of  prosperity. 
The  only  serious  check  he  ever  experienced  (at  a  very  late  day 
in  England)  was  only  so  great  as  to  stimulate  his  genius  to  mani 
fest  itself  by  a  still  higher  order  of  efforts,  than  before  (his  ora 
torios.)  And  these  were  not  only  worthy  of  his  highest  aspira 
tions,  but  successful  with  the  public  of  his  own  day. 

It  is  by  no  means  the  case  in  the  arts,  that  genius  must  not 
expect  sympathy  from  its  contemporaries.  Its  history  shows  it 
in  many  instances,  answering  as  much  as  prophesying.  And 
Haydn,  Handel,  and  Mozart  seemed  to  culminate  to  a  star-gazing 
generation. 

While  yet  in  his  teens,  Handel  met  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tus 
cany,  who  was  very  desirous  to  send  him  to  Italy,  at  his  own  ex 
pense,  that  he  might  study  the  Italian  music  in  its  native  land. 
"  But  he  refused  to  accept  the  Duke's  offer,  though  determined  to 
go  as  soon  as  he  could  make  up  a  privy  purse  for  the  purpose. 
And  this  noble  independency  he  preserved  through  life,"  and  we 
may  add  the  twin  sister,  liberality,  for  we  find  scattered  through 
his  life  numerous  instances  of  a  wise  and  princely  beneficence. 

When  he  at  last  went  to  Italy,  he  staid  six  years,  a  period  of 
inestimable  benefit  to  his  growth.  I  pause  with  delight  at  this 
rare  instance  of  a  mind  obtaining  the  food  it  craves,  just  at  the 
time  it  craves  it.  The  too  early  and  too  late,  which  prevent  so 
many  "  trees  from  growing  up  into  the  heavens,"  withered  no 
hour  of  Handel's  life.  True,  the  compensating  principle  showed 
itself  in  his  regard,  for  he  had  neither  patience  nor  fortitude, 
which  the  usual  training  might  have  given.  But  it  seems  as  if 
what  the  man  lost,  the  genius  gained,  and  we  cannot  be  dis 
pleased  at  the  exception  which  proves  the  rule. 

The  Italians  received  him  with  that  affectionate  enthusiasm, 
which  they  show  as  much  towards  foreign  as  native  talent.  The 
magnanimous  delight  with  which  they  greeted  West,  and,  as  it  is 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  63 

said,  now  greet  our  countryman  Powers,  which  not  many  years 
since  made  their  halls  resound  with  the  cry,  "there  is  no  tenor 
like  Braham,"  was  heard  in  shouts  of  "  Viva  il  caro  Sassone  !" 
at  every  new  composition  given  by  Handei  on  their  stage.  The 
people  followed  him  with  rapture  ;  the  nobles  had  musical  festi 
vals  prepared  in  his  honour ;  Scarlatti's  beautiful  homage  has 
been  mentioned  above ;  and  the  celebrated  Corelli  displayed  the 
same  modest  and  noble  deference  to  his  instructions.  He  too, 
addressed  him  as  "  Caro  Sassone" 

A  charming  anecdote  of  Corelli  is  not  irrelevant  here. 

"  A  little  incident  relating  to  Corelli  shows  his  character  so  strongly, 
that  I  shall  be  excused  for  reciting  it,  though  foreign  to  our  present  pur 
pose.  He  was  requested  one  evening  to  play,  to  a  large  and  polite  com 
pany,  a  fine  solo  which  he  had  lately  composed.  Just  as  he  was  in  the 
midst  of  his  performance,  some  of  the  number  began  to  discourse  together 
a  little  unseasonably  ;  Corelli  gently  lays  down  his  instrument.  Being 
asked  whether  anything  was  the  matter  with  him;  nothing,  he  replied,  he 
was  only  afraid  that  he  interrupted  the  conversation,  The  elegant  pro 
priety  of  this  silent  censure,  joined  with  his  genteel  and  good-humoured 
unswer,  afforded  great  pleasure,  even  to  the  persons  who  occasioned  it. 
They  begged  him  to  resume  his  instrument,  assuring  him  at  the  same 
time,  that  he  might  depend  on  all  the  attention  which  the  occasion  re 
quired,  and  which  his  merit  ought  before  to  have  commanded." — Life  of 
Handel. 

His  six  years'  residence  in  Italy  educated  Handel's  genius  into 
a  certainty,  vigour  and  command  of  resources  that  made  his  after 
career  one  track  of  light.  The  forty  years  of  after  life  are  one 
continued  triumph,  a  showering  down  of  life  and  joy  on  an  ex 
pectant  world. 

Although  Germany  offered  every  encouragement  both  from 
people  and  princes,  England  suited  him  best,  and  became  the 
birthplace  of  his  greatest  works.  For  nine  years  after  he  began 
to  conduct  the  opera-house,  his  success  with  the  public  and  hap 
piness  in  his  creative  life  appears  to  have  been  perfect.  Then 


64  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

he  came  for  brief  space  amid  the  breakers.  It  is,  indeed,  rather 
wonderful  that  he  kept  peace  so  long  with  those  most  refractory 
subjects,  the  singers,  than  that  it  should  fail  at  last.  Fail  at  last 
it  did  !  Handel  was  peremptory  in  his  requisitions,  the  singing- 
birds  obstinate  in  their  disobedience  ;  the  public  divided,  and  the 
majority  went  against  Handel.  The  following  little  recital  of 
one  of  his  many  difficulties,  with  his  prirna-donnas,  exhibits  his 
character  with  amusing  fidelity. 

"  Having  one  day  some  words  with  Cuzzoni  on  her  refusing  to  sing  Cara 
Immagine  in  Ottone,  *  Oh  Madame,'  said  he,  *  je  sais  bien  que  vous  etes 
une  veritable  Diable,  mais  je  vous  ferai  sc,avoir,  moi,  que  je  suis  Beelze 
bub  le  Chef  des  diables.'  With  this  he  took  her  up  by  the  waist,  swear 
ing  that,  if  she  made  any  more  words,  he  would  fling  her  out  of  the  win 
dow.  It  is  to  be  noted,  (adds  the  biographer  with  Counsellor  Pleydel-like 
facetiousness,)  that  this  was  formerly  one  of  the  methods  of  executing 
criminals  in  Germany,  a  process  not  unlike  that  of  the  Tarpeian  rock,  and 
probably  derived  from  it." — Life  of  Handel. 

Senesino,  too,  was  one  of  Handel's  malcontent  aids,  the  same 
of  whom  the  famous  anecdote  is  told,  thus  given  in  the  Life  of 
Haydn. 

"  Senesino  was  to  perform  on  a  London  theatre  the  character  of  a  ty 
rant,  in  I  know  not  what  opera ;  the  celebrated  Farinelli  sustained  that 
of  an  oppressed  prince.  Farinelli,  who  had  been  giving  concerts  in  the 
country,  arrived  only  a  few  hours  before  the  representation,  and  the  un 
fortunate  hero  and  the  cruel  tyrant  saw  one  another  for  the  first  time  on 
the  stage.  When  Farinelli  came  to  his  first  air,  in  which  he  supplicates 
for  mercy,  he  sung  it  with  such  sweetness  and  expression,  that  the  poor 
tyrant,  totally  forgetting  himself,  threw  himself  upon  his  neck  and  repeat 
edly  embraced  him." 

The  refined  sensibility  and  power  of  free  abandonment  to  the 
life  of  the  moment,  displayed  in  this  anecdote,  had  made  Senesino 
the  darling,  the  spoiled  child  of  the  public,  so  that  they  were 
ungrateful  to  their  great  father,  Handel.  But  he  could  not  bow 
to  the  breeze.  He  began  life  anew  at  the  risk  of  the  wealth  he 


LIVES   OF   THE   GREAT  COMPOSERS.  65 

had  already  acquired,  and  these  difficulties  only  urged  him  to 
new  efforts.  The  Oratorio  dawned  upon  his  stimulated  mind, 
and  we  may,  perhaps,  thank  the  humours  of  Senesino  and  Faus 
tina  for  the  existence  of  the  Messiah. 

The  oratorios  were  not  brought  forward  without  opposition. 
That  part  of  the  public,  which  in  all  ages,  walks  in  clogs  on  the 
green-sward,  and  prefers  a  candle  to  the  sun,  which  accused  So 
crates  of  impiety,  denounced  the  Tartuffe  of  Moliere  as  irreli 
gious,  which  furnishes  largely  the  Oxford  press  in  England,  and 
rings  its  little  alarm  bell  among  ourselves  at  every  profound  and 
universal  statement  of  religious  experience,  was  exceedingly  dis 
tressed,  that  Handel  should  profane  the  details  of  biblical  history 
by  wedding  them  to  his  God-given  harmonies.  Religion,  they 
cried,  was  lost ;  she  must  be  degraded,  familiarized ;  she  would 
no  longer  speak  with  authority  after  she  had  been  sung.  But, 
happily,  owls  hoot  in  vain  in  the  ear  of  him  whose  soul  is  pos 
sessed  by  the  muse,  and  Handel,  like  all  the  great,  could  not  even 
understand  the  meaning  of  these  petty  cavils.  Genius  is  fear 
less  ;  she  never  fancies  herself  wiser  than  God,  as  prudence 
does.  She  is  faithful,  for  she  has  been  trusted,  and  feels  the 
presence  of  God  in  herself  too  clearly  to  doubt  his  government 
of  the  world. 

Handel's  great  exertions  at  this  period  brought  on  an  attack  of 
paralysis,  which  he  cured  by  a  course  that  shows  his  untamed, 
powerful  nature,  and  illustrates  in  a  homely  way  the  saying, 
Fortune  favors  the  brave. 

Like  Tasso,  and  other  such  fervid  and  sanguine  persons,  if  he 
could  at  last  be  persuaded  to  use  a  remedy  for  any  sickness,  he 
always  overdid  the  matter.  As  for  this  palsied  arm, — 

"  It  was  thought  best  for  him  to  have  recourse  to  the  vapor  baths  at  Aix- 
la-Chapelle,  over  which  he  sat  three  times  as  long  as  hath  ever  been  the 
practice.  Whoever  knows  anything  of  the  nature  of  these  baths,  will, 
from  this  instance,  form  some  idea  of  his  surprising  constitution.  His 


PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE   AND   ART. 


sweats  were  profuse  beyond  what  can  well  be  imagined.  His  cure,  from 
the  manner  as  well  as  the  quickness  with  which  it  was  wrought,  passed 
with  the  nuns  for  a  miracle.  When,  but  a  few  hours  from  the  time  of  his 
leaving  the  bath,  they  heard  him  at  the  organ  in  the  principal  church,  as 
well  as  convent,  playing  in  a  manner  so  much  beyond  what  they  had  ever 
heard  or  even  imagined,  it  is  not  wonderful,  that  they  should  suppose  the 
interposition  of  a  higher  power." 

He  remained,  however,  some  weeks  longer  at  the  baths  to  con 
firm  the  cure,  thus  suddenly  effected  by  means  that  would  have 
destroyed  a  frame  of  less  strength  and  energy.  The  more  cruel 
ill  of  blindness  fell  upon  his  latest  years,  but  he  had  already  run 
an  Olympian  course,  and  could  sit  still  with  the  palm  and  oak 
crowns  upon  his  brows. 

Handel  is  a  Greek  in  the  fullness  and  summer  glow  of  his  na 
ture,  in  his  directness  of  action  and  unrepentant  steadfastness.  I 
think  also  with  a  pleasure,  in  which  I  can  hardly  expect  sympa 
thy,  since  even  his  simple  biographer  shrinks  from  it  with  the  air 
of  "  a  person  of  quality,"  on  the  fact  that  he  was  fond  of  good 
eating,  and  also  ate  a  great  deal.  As  he  was  neither  epicure  nor 
gourmand,  I  not  only  accept  the  excuse  of  the  biographer,  that  a 
person  of  his  choleric  nature,  vast  industry  and  energy,  needed 
a  great  deal  of  sustenance  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  perfectly  in  char 
acter  for  one  of  his  large  heroic  mould.  I  am  aware  that  these 
are  total  abstinence  days,  especially  in  the  regions  of  art  and  ro 
mance  ;  but  the  Greeks  were  wiser  and  more  beautiful,  if  less 
delicate  than  we ;  and  I  am  strongly  reminded  by  all  that  is  said 
of  Handel,  of  a  picture  painted  in  their  golden  age.  The  sub 
ject  was  Hercules  at  the  court  of  Admetus ;  in  the  background 
handmaids  are  mourning  round  the  corpse  of  the  devoted  Alceste, 
while  in  the  foreground  the  son  of  Jove  is  satisfying  what  seem 
to  his  attendants  an  interminable  hunger.  They  are  heaping 
baskets,  filling  cans,  toiling  up  the  stairs  with  huge  joints  of 
meat ;  the  hero  snaps  his  fingers,  impatient  for  the  new  course, 
though  many  an  empty  trencher  bears  traces  of  what  he  has 


LIVES   OF  THE   GREAT  COMPOSERS.  67 

already  devoured.  For  why;  a  journey  to  Tartarus  and  con 
quest  of  gloomy  Dis  would  hardly,  in  the  natural  state  of  society, 
be  undertaken  on  a  biscuit  arid  a  glass  of  lemonade.  And  when 
England  was  yet  fresh  from  her  grand  revolution,  and  John  Bull 
still  cordially  enjoyed  his  yule  logs  and  Christmas  feasts,  "  glo 
rious  John  Dryden"  was  not  ashamed  to  write  thus  of  the  heroes, — 
"  And  when  the  rage  of  hunger  was  appeased." 

Then  a  man  was  not  ashamed  of  being  not  only  a  man  in  mind, 
but  every  inch  a  man.  And  Handel  surely  did  not  neglect  to 
labour  after  he  had  feasted.  Beautiful  are  the  upward  tending, 
slender  stemmed  plants !  Not  less  beautiful  and  longer  lived, 
those  of  stronger  root,  more  powerful  trunk,  more  spreading 
branches  !  Let  each  be  true  to  his  law  ;  concord,  not  monotony, 
is  music.  We  thank  thee,  Nature,  for  Handel,  we  thank  thee  for 
Mozart !  Yet  one  story  from  the  Life  of  Handel  ere  we  pass  on. 
It  must  interest  all  who  have  observed  the  same  phenomenon  of  a 
person  exquisitely  alive  to  the  music  of  verse,  stupifiecl  and  be 
wildered  by  other  music. 

"  Pope  often  met  Handel  at  the  Earl  of  Burlington's.  One  day  after 
Handel  had  played  some  of  the  finest  things  he  ever  composed,  Mr.  Pope 
declared  that  they  gave  him  no  sort  of  pleasure  ;  that  his  ears  were  of  that 
untoward  make,  and  reprobate  cast,  as  to  receive  his  music,  which  he  was 
persuaded  was  the  best  that  could  be,  with  as  much  indifference  as  the 
airs  of  a  common  ballad.  A  person  of  his  excellent  understanding,  it  is 
hard  to  suspect  of  affectation.  And  yet  it  is  as  hard  to  conceive  how  an 
ear,  so  perfectly  attentive  to  all  the  delicacies  of  rhythm  and  poetical 
numbers,  should  be  totally  insensible  to  the  charm  of  musical  sounds.  An 
attentiveness,  too,  which  was  as  discernible  in  his  manner  of  reading,  as 
it  is  in  his  method  of  writing." — Life  of  Handel. 

The  principal  facts  of  that  apparition  which  bore  the  name  of 
Mozart,  are  well  known.  His  precocious  development  was  far 
more  precocious  than  that  of  any  other  artist  on  record.  (And 
here  let  us  observe  another  correspondence  between  music  and 


68  PAPERS   OIN   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

mathematics,  that  is,  the  early  prodigies  in  childish  form,  which 
seem  to  say  that  neither  the  art  nor  the  science  requires  the  slow 
care  of  the  gardener,  Experience,  but  are  plants  indigenous  to  the 
soil,  which  need  only  air  and  light  to  lure  them  up  to  majestic 
stature.)  Connected  with  this  is  his  exquisite  delicacy  of  organ 
ization,  unparalleled  save  in  the  history  of  the  fairy  Fine  Ear,  so 
that  at  six  years  old  he  perceived  a  change  of  half  a  quarter  of 
a  note  in  the  tuning  of  a  violin,  and  fainted  always  at  sound  of 
the  trumpet.  The  wonderful  exploits  which  this  accurate  per 
ception  of  and  memory  for  sounds  enabled  him  to  perform,  are 
known  to  every  one,  but  I  could  read  the  story  a  hundred  times 
yet,  so  great  is  its  childish  beauty.  Again,  allied  with  this  are 
his  extreme  tenderness  and  loving  nature.  In  this  life  (Schlich- 
tegroll's,  translated  by  Bombet)  it  is  mentioned,  "  He  would  say 
ten  times  a  day  to  those  about  him,  '  Do  you  love  me  well  ?'  and 
whenever  in  jest  they  said  *  No,'  the  tears  would  roll  down  his 
cheeks."  I  remember  to  have  read  elsewhere  an  anecdote  of  the 
same  engaging  character.  "  One  day,  when  Mozart,  (then  in 
his  seventh  year,)  was  entering  the  presence  chamber  of  the  em 
press,  he  fell  and  hurt  himself.  The  other  young  princesses 
laughed,  but  Marie  Antoinette  took  him  up,  and  consoled  him 
with  many  caresses.  The  little  Mozart  said  to  her,  "  You  are 
good  ;  I  will  marry  you."  Well  for  the  lovely  princess,  if  com 
mon  men  could  have  met  and  understood  her  lively  and  genial 
nature  as  genius  could,  in  its  childlike  need  of  love. 

With  this  great  desire  for  sympathy  in  the  affections  was 
linked,  as  by  nature  it  should  be,  an  entire  self-reliance  in  action. 
Mozart  knew  nothing  but  music ;  on  that  the  whole  life  of  his 
soul  was  shed,  but  there  he  was  as  unerring  and  undoubting,  as 
fertile  and  aspiring. 

"  At  six  years  of  age,  sitting  down  to  play  in  presence  of  the  emperor 
Francis,  he  addressed  himself  to  his  majesty  and  asked ;  *  Is  not  M. 
Wagenseil  here?  We  must  send  for  him;  he  understands  the  thing.' 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS. 


The  emperor  sent  for  Wagenseil,  and  gave  up  his  place  to  him  by  the 
side  of  the  piano.  '  Sir,'  said  Mozart  to  the  composer,  *  I  am  going  to 
play  one  of  your  concertos  ;  you  must  turn  over  the  leaves  for  rne.'  The 
emperor  said,  in  jest,  to  the  little  Wolfgang;  '  It  is  not  very  difficult  to 
play  with  all  one's  fingers,  but  to  play  with  only  one,  without  seeing  the 
keys,  would  indeed  be  extraordinary.'  Without  manifesting  the  least  sur 
prise  at  this  strange  proposal,  the  child  immediately  began  to  play  with  a 
single  finger,  and  with  the  greatest  possible  precision  and  clearness.  He 
afterwards  desired  them  to  cover  the  keys  of  the  piano,  and  continued  to 
play  in  the  same  manner,  as  if  he  had  long  practiced  it. 

From  his  most  tender  age,  Mozart,  animated  with  the  true  feeling  of  his 
art,  was  never  vain  of  the  compliments  paid  him  by  the  great.  He  only 
performed  insignificant  trifles  when  he  had  to  do  with  people  unacquainted 
with  music.  He  played,  on  the  contrary,  with  all  the  fire  and  attention 
of  which  he  was  capable,  when  in  the  presence  of  connoisseurs ;  and  his 
father  was  often  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  artifice,  in  order  to  make  the 
great  men,  before  whom  he  was  to  exhibit,  pass  for  such  with  him." 

Here,  in  childlike  soft  unconsciousness,  Mozart  acts  the  same 
part  that  Beethoven  did,  with  cold  imperial  sarcasm,  when  the 
Allied  Sovereigns  were  presented  to  him  at  Vienna.  "  I  held 
myself  '  vornehm,'  "  said  Beethoven,  that  is,  treated  them  with 
dignified  affability  ;  and  his  srnile  is  one  of  saturnine  hauteur,  as 
he  says  it ;  for  the  nature,  so  deeply  glowing  towards  man,  was 
coldly  disdainful  to  those  who  would  be  more  than  men,  merely 
by  the  aid  of  money  and  trappings.  Mozart's  attitude  is  the 
lovelier  and  more  simple  ;  but  Beethoven's  lion  tread  and  shake 
of  the  mane  are  grand  too. 

The  following  anecdote  shows,  that  Mozart  (rare  praise  is  this) 
was  not  less  dignified  and  clear-sighted  as  a  man  than  in  his 
early  childhood. 

"  The  Italians  at  the  court  of  the  Emperor,  Joseph  the  Second,  spoke 
of  Mozart's  first  essays  (when  he  was  appointed  chapel-master)  with  more 
jealousy  than  fairness,  and  the  emperor,  who  scarcely  ever  judged  for  him 
self,  wa«*  easily  carried  away  by  their  decisions.     One  day  after  hearing  the 
rehearsal  of  a  comic  opera,  which  he  had  himself  demanded  of  Mozart, 


70  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

he  said  to  the  composer,  '  My  dear  Mozart,  that  is  too  fine  for  my  ears ; 
there  are  too  many  notes  there.'  '  I  ask  your  majesty's  pardon,'  replied 
Mozart,  dryly  ;  *  there  are  just  as  many  notes  as  there  should  be.'  The 
emperor  said  nothing,  and  appeared  rather  embarrassed  by  the  reply  ;  but 
•when  the  opera  was  performed,  he  bestowed  on  it  the  greatest  enco 
miums." 

This  anecdote  certainly  shows  Joseph  the  Second  to  be  not  a 
mean  man,  if  neither  a  sage  nor  a  connoisseur. 

Read  in  connexion  with  the  foregoing,  the  traits  recorded  of 
the  artist  during  his  wife's  illness,  (Life  of  Mozart,  p.  309,)  and 
you  have  a  sketch  of  a  most  beautiful  character. 

Combined  with  this  melting  sweetness,  and  extreme  delicacy, 
was  a  prophetic  energy  of  deep-seated  fire  in  his  genius.  He 
inspires  while  he  overwhelms  you.  The  vigour,  the  tenderness, 
and  far-reaching  ken  of  his  conceptions,  were  seconded  by  a 
range,  a  readiness,  and  flexibility  in  his  talents  for  expression, 
which  can  only  be  told  by  the  hackneyed  comparison  between 
him  and  Raphael.  A  life  of  such  unceasing  flow  and  pathetic 
earnestness  must  at  any  rate  have  early  exhausted  the  bodily 
energies.  But  the  high-strung  nerves  of  Mozart  made  him  ex 
cessive  alike  in  his  fondness  for  pleasure,  and  in  the  melancholy 
which  was  its  reaction.  His  life  was  too  eager  and  keen  to  last. 
The  gift  of  presentiment,  as  much  developed  in  his  private  his 
tory  as  in  his  works,  offers  a  most  interesting  study  to  the  philo 
sophic  observer,  but  one  of  too  wide  a  scope  for  any  discussion 
here. 

I  shall  not  speak  of  Mozart  as  a  whole  man,  for  he  was  not  so ; 
but  rather  the  exquisite  organ  of  a  divine  inspiration.  He  scarce^ 
ly  took  root  on  the  soil ;  not  knowing  common  purposes,  cares, 
or  discretions,  his  life  was  all  crowded  with  creative  efforts,  and 
vehement  pleasures,  or  tender  feelings  between.  His  private 
character  was  that  of  a  child,  as  ever  he  loved  to  be  stimulated 
to  compose  by  having  fairy  tales  told  to  him  by  the  voice  of 


LIVES   OF   THE   GREAT  COMPOSERS.  71 

affection.  And  when  we  consider  how  any  art  tends  to  usurp 
the  whole  of  a  man's  existence,  and  music  most  of  all  to  unfit  for 
other  modes  of  life,  both  from  its  stimulus  to  the  senses  and  ex 
altation  of  the  soul,  we  have  rather  reason  to  wonder  that  the 
other  four  great  ones  lived  severe  and  manlike  lives,  than  that  this 
remained  a  voluptuary  and  a  fair  child.  The  virtues  of  a  child 
he  had, — sincerity,  tenderness,  generosity,  and  reverence.  In 
the  generosity  with  which  he  gave  away  the  precious  works  of  his 
genius,  and  the  princely  sweetness  with  which  he  conferred 
these  favours,  we  are  again  reminded  of  Raphael.  There  are 
equally  fine  anecdotes  of  Haydn's  value  for  him,  and  his  for 
Haydn.  Haydn  answered  the  critics  of  "Don  Giovanni,"  "I 
am  not  a  judge  of  the  dispute  ;  all  that  I  know  is,  that  Mozart  is 
the  greatest  composer  now  existing."  Mozart  answered  the 
critic  on  Haydn,  "  Sir,  if  you  and  I  were  both  melted  down 
together,  we  should  not  furnish  materials  for  one  Haydn." 

Richard  Cceur  de  Lion  and  Saladin  ! 

We  never  hear  the  music  of  Mozart  to  advantage,  yet  no  one 
can  be  a  stranger  to  the  character  of  his  melodies.  The  idea 
charms  me  of  a  symbolical  correspondence,  not  only  between 
the  soul  of  man  and  the  productions  of  nature,  but  of  a  like  har 
mony,  pervading  every  invention  of  his  own.  It  seems  he  has 
not  only  "  builded  better  than  he  knew,"  when  following  out  the 
impulse  of  his  genius,  but  in  every  mechanical  invention,  so  that 
all  the  furniture  of  man's  life  is  necessarily  but  an  aftergrowth 
of  nature.  It  seems  clear  that  not  only  every  hue,  every  gem, 
every  flower,  every  tree,  has  its  correspondent  species  in  the  race 
of  man,  but  the  same  may  be  said  of  instruments,  as  obviously 
of  the  telescope,  microscope,  compass.  It  is  clearly  the  case 
with  the  musical  instruments.  As  a  child  I  at  once  thought  of 
Mozart  as  the  Flute,  and  to  this  day,  cannot  think  of  one  without 
the  other.  Nothing  ever  occurred  to  confirm  this  fancy,  till  a 


72  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

year  or  two  since,  in  the  book  now   before  me,  I  found  with  de 
light  the  following  passage. 

"  The  most  remarkable  circumstance  in  his  music,  independently  of 
the  genius  displayed  in  it,  is  the  novel  way  in  which  he  employs  the 
orchestra,  especially  the  wind  instruments.  He  draws  surprising  effect 
from  the  flute,  an  instrument  of  which  Cimarosa  hardly  ever  made  any 
use." 

Ere  bidding  adieu  to  Mozart,  to  whom  I  have  only  turned  your 
eyes,  as  the  fowler  directs  those  of  the  by-standers  to  the  bird 
glancing  through  the  heavens,  which  he  had  not  skill  to  bring 
down,  and  consoles  himself  with  thinking  the  fair  bird  shows 
traer,  if  farther,  on  the  wing,  I  will  insert  three  sonnets,  so  far 
interesting  as  showing  the  degree  of  truth  with  which  these  ob 
jects  appear  to  one,  who  has  enjoyed  few  opportunities  of  hearing 
the  great  masters,  and  is  only  fitted  to  receive  them  by  a  sincere 
love  of  music,  which  caused  a  rejection  of  the  counterfeits  that 
have  been  current  among  us.  They  date  some  years  back,  and 
want  that  distinctness  of  expression,  so  attainable  to-day  ;  but,  if 
unaided  by  acquaintance  with  criticism  on  these  subjects,  have 
therefore  the  merit  of  being  a  pure  New  England  growth,  and 
deserve  recording  like  Sigismund  Biederman's  comparison  of 
Queen  Margaret  to  his  favourite  of  the  Swiss  pasture.  "  The 
queen  is  a  stately  creature.  The  chief  cow  of  the  herd,  who 
carries  the  bouquets  and  garlands  to  the  chalet,  has  not  a  statelier 
pace." — Anne  of  Geierstein. 

INSTRUMENTAL  MUSIC. 

The  charms  of  melody,  in  simple  airs, 

By  human  voices  sung,  are  always  felt ; 

With  thoughts  responsive,  careless  hearers  melt, 
Of  secret  ills,  which  our  frail  nature  bears. 

We  listen,  weep,  forget.     But  when  the  throng 
Of  a  great  Master's  thoughts,  above  the  reach 
Of  words  or  colors,  wire  and  wood  can  teach 


LIVES   OF   THE    GREAT   COMPOSERS. 


By  laws  which  to  the  spirit-world  belong, — 
When  several  parts,  to  tell  one  mood  combined, 

Flash  meaning  on  us  we  can  ne'er  express, 
Giving  to  matter  subtlest  powers  of  Mind, 

Superior  joys  attentive  souls  confess. 
The  harmony  which  suns  and  stars  obey, 
Blesses  our  earth-bound  state  with  visions  of  supernal  day. 

BEETHOVEN. 
Most  intellectual  master  of  the  art, 

Which,  best  of  all,  teaches  the  mind  of  man 

The  universe  in  all  its  varied  plan, — 
What  strangely  mingled  thoughts  thy  strains  impart! 
Here  the  faint  tenor  thrills  the  inmost  heart, 

There  the  rich  bass  the  Reason's  balance  shows  ; 

Here  breathes  the  softest  sigh  that  Love  e'er  knows  ; 
There  sudden  fancies,  seeming  without  chart, 

Float  into  wildest  breezy  interludes ; 
The  past  is  all  forgot, — hopes  sweetly  breathe, 
And  our  whole  being  glows, — when  lo  !  beneath 

The  flowery  brink,  Despair's  deep  sob  concludes ! 
Startled,  we  strive  to  free  us  from  the  chain, — 
Notes  of  high  triumph  swell,  and  we  are  thine  again  ! 

MOZART. 

If  to  the  intellect  and  passions  strong 

Beethoven  speak,  with  such  resistless  power, 

Making  us  share  the  full  creative  hour, 
When  his  wand  fixed  wild  Fancy's  mystic  throng, 
Oh  nature's  finest  lyre  !  to  thee  belong 

The  deepest,  softest  tones  of  tenderness, 

Whose  purity  the  listening  angels  bless, 
With  silvery  clearness  of  seraphic  song. 
Sad  are  those  chords,  oh,  heavenward  striving  soul ! 

A  love,  which  never  found  its  home  on  earth, 

Pensively  vibrates,  even  in  thy  mirth, 
And  gentle  laws  thy  lightest  notes  control ; 
Yet  dear  that  sadness  !  Spheral  concords  felt 
Purify  most  those  hearts  which  most  they  melt. 
PART  II.  4 


74  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  widely  varying,  commanding,  yet, 
bright  and  equable  life  of  Haydn  ;  of  the  victorious  procession, 
and  regal  Alexandrine  aspect  of  Handel ;  of  the  tender,  beloved, 
overflowing,  all  too  intense  life  of  Mozart.  They  are  all  great 
and  beautiful ;  look  at  them  from  what  side  you  will,  the  foot 
stands  firm,  the  mantle  falls  in  wide  and  noble  folds,  and  the  eye 
flashes  divine  truths.  But  now  we  come  to  a  figure  still  more 
Roman,  John  Sebastian  Bach,  all  whose  names  we  give  to  dis 
tinguish  him  from  a  whole  family  of  geniuses,  a  race  through 
which  musical  inspiration  had  been  transmitted,  without  a  break, 
for  six  generations ;  nor  did  it  utterly  fail,  after  coming  to  its  full 
flower  in  John  Sebastian  ;  his  sons,  though  not  equal  to  their 
father,  were  not  unworthy  their  hereditary  honours. 

The  life  of  Bach  which  I  have  before  me,  (translated  from 
the  German  of  J.  N.  Forkel,  author  also  of  the  "  Complete  His 
tory  of  Music,")  is  by  far  the  best  of  any  of  these  records.  It  is 
exceedingly  brief  and  simple,  very  bare  of  facts,  but  the  wise, 
quiet  enthusiasm  of  its  tone,  and  the  delicate  discrimination  of  the 
remarks  on  the  genius  of  Bach,  bring  us  quite  home  to  him  and 
his  artist-life.  Bach  certainly  shines  too  lonely  in  the  sky  of  his 
critic,  who  has  lived  in  and  by  him,  till  he  cannot  see  other  souls 
in  their  due  places,  but  would  interrupt  all  hymns  to  other  deities 
with  "  Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians  !"  But  his  worship  is 
true  to  the  object,  if  false  to  the  All,  and  the  pure  reverence  of 
his  dependence  has  made  him  fit  to  reproduce  the  genius  which 
has  fed  his  inmost  life.  All  greatness  should  enfranchise  its  ad 
mirers,  first  from  all  other  dominions,  and  then  from  its  own. 
We  cannot  but  think  that  Forkel  has  seen,  since  writing  this 
book,  that  he  deified  Bach  too  exclusively,  but  he  can  never  feel 
the  shame  of  blind  or  weak  obsequiousness.  His,  if  idolatry,  was 
yet  in  the  spirit  of  true  religion. 

The  following  extract  from  the  preface,  gives  an  idea  of  the 
spirit  in  which  the  whole  book  is  written. 


LIVES   OF  THE   GREAT  COMPOSERS.  75 

"  How  do  I  wish  I  were  able  to  describe,  according  to  its  merit,  the 
sublime  genius  of  this  first  of  all  artists,  whether  German  or  foreign ! 
After  the  honour  of  being  so  great  an  artist,  so  preeminent  above  all  as  he 
was,  there  is  perhaps  no  greater  than  that  of  being  able  duly  to  appreciate 
so  entirely  perfect  an  art,  and  to  speak  of  it  with  judgment.  He  who  can 
do  the  last,  must  have  a  mind  not  wholly  uncongenial  to  that  of  the  artist 
himself,  and  has  therefore,  in  some  measure,  the  flattering  probability  in 
his  favour,  that  he  might  perhaps  have  been  capable  of  the  first,  if  similar 
external  relations  had  led  him  into  the  proper  career.  But  I  am  not  so 
presumptuous  as  to  believe,  that  I  could  ever  attain  to  such  an  honour.  I 
am,  on  the  contrary,  thoroughly  convinced,  that  no  language  in  the  world 
is  rich  enough  to  express  all  that  might  and  should  be  said  of  the  astonish 
ing  extent  of  such  a  genius.  The  more  intimately  we  are  acquainted  with 
it,  the  more  does  our  admiration  increase.  All  our  eulogiums,  praises, 
and  admiration,  will  always  be,  and  remain  no  more  than  well-meant  prat 
tle.  Whoever  has  had  an  opportunity  of  comparing  together  the  works  of 
art,  of  several  centuries,  will  not  find  this  declaration  exaggerated  ;  he  will 
rather  have  adopted  the  opinion,  that  Bach's  works  cannot  be  spoken  of, 
by  him  who  is  fully  acquainted  with  them,  except  with  rapture,  and  some 
of  them  even  with  a  kind  of  sacred  awe.  We  may  indeed  conceive  and 
explain  his  management  of  the  internal  mechanism  of  the  art ;  but  how 
he  contrived  at  the  same  time  to  inspire  into  this  mechanic  art,  which  he 
alone  has  attained  in  such  high  perfection,  the  living  spirit  which  so  pow 
erfully  attaches  us  even  in  his  smallest  works,  will  probably  be  always 
felt  and  admired  only,  but  never  conceived." 

Of  the  materials  for  this  narrative  he  says, 

«'  I  am  indebted  to  the  two  eldest  sons  of  J.  S.  Bach.  I  was  not  only 
personally  acquainted  with  both,  but  kept  up  a  constant  correspondence 
with  them  for  many  years,  chiefly  with  C.  Ph.  Emanuel.  The  world 
knows  that  they  were  both  great  artists  ;  but  it  perhaps  does  not  know  that 
to  the  last  moment  of  their  lives  they  never  spoke  of  their  father's  genius 
without  enthusiasm  and  admiration.  As  I  had  from  my  early  youth  felt 
the  same  veneration  for  the  genius  of  their  father,  it  was  a  frequent  theme 
of  discussion  with  us,  both  in  our  conversations  and  correspondence.  This 
made  me  by  degrees  so  acquainted  with  everything  relative  to  J.  S.  Bach's 
life,  genius,  and  works,  that  I  may  now  hope  to  be  able  to  give  to  the  pub 
lic  not  only  some  detailed,  but  also  useful  information  on  the  subject. 

"  I  have  no  other  object  whatever  than  to  call  the  attention  of  the  pub- 


76  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

lie  to  an  undertaking,  the  sole  aim  of  which  is  to  raise  a  worthy  monu 
ment  to  German  art,  to  furnish  the  true  artist  with  a  gallery  of  the  most 
instructive  models,  and  to  open  to  the  friends  of  musical  science  an  inex 
haustible  source  of  the  sublimest  enjoyment." 

The  deep,  tender  repose  in  the  contemplation  of  genius,  the 
fidelity  in  the  details  of  observation,  indicated  in  this  passage,  are 
the  chief  requisites  of  the  critic.  But  he  should  never  say  of 
any  object,  as  Forkel  does,  it  is  the  greatest  that  ever  was  or 
ever  will  be,  for  that  is  limiting  the  infinite,  and  making  himself 
a  bigot,  gentle  and  patient  perhaps,  but  still  a  bigot.  All  are 
so  who  limit  the  divine  within  the  boundaries  of  their  present 
knowledge. 

The  founder  of  the  Bach  family  (in  its  musical  phase)  was  a 
Thuringian  miller.  "  In  his  leisure  hours  he  amused  himself 
with  his  guitar,  which  he  even  took  with  him  into  the  mill,  and 
played  upon  it  amidst  all  the  noise  and  clatter."  The  same  love 
of  music,  for  its  own  sake,  continued  in  the  family  for  six  gen 
erations.  After  enumerating  the  geniuses  who  illustrated  it  be 
fore  the  time  of  John  Sebastian,  Forkel  says, 

"  Not  only  the  above-mentioned,  but  many  other  able  composers  of  tke 
earlier  generations  of  the  family  might  undoubtedly  have  obtained  much 
more  important  musical  offices,  as  well  as  a  more  extensive  reputation,  and 
a  more  brilliant  fortune,  if  they  had  been  inclined  to  leave  their  native 
province,  and  to  make  themselves  known  in  other  countries.  But  we  do 
not  find  that  any  one  of  them  ever  felt  an  inclination  for  such  an  emigra 
tion.  Temperate  and  frugal  by  nature  and  education,  they  required  but 
little  to  live ;  and  the  intellectual  enjoyment,  which  their  art  procured 
them,  enabled  them  not  only  to  be  content  without  the  gold  chains,  which 
used  at  that  time  to  be  given  by  great  men  to  esteemed  artists,  as  especial 
marks  of  honour,  but  also  without  the  least  envy  to  see  them  worn  by  others, 
who  perhaps  without  these  chains  would  not  have  been  happy." 

Nothing  is  more  pleasing  than  the  account  of  the  jubilee  which 
this  family  had  once  a  year.  As  they  were  a  large  family,  and 
scattered  about  in  different  cities,  they  met  once  a  year  and  had 
this  musical  festival. 


LIVES   OP  THE   GREAT  COMPOSERS.  77 

"  Their  amusements  during  the  time  of  their  meeting  were  entirely  mu 
sical.  As  the  company  wholly  consisted  of  chanters,  organists,  and  town 
musicians,  who  had  all  to  do  with  the  Church,  and  as  it  was  besides  a  gen 
eral  custom  to  begin  everything  with  religion,  the  first  thing  they  did, 
when  they  were  assembled,  was  to  sing  a  hymn  in  chorus.  From  this  pi 
ous  commencement  they  proceeded  to  drolleries,  which  often  made  a  very 
great  contrast  with  it.  They  sang,  for  instance,  popular  songs,  the  con 
tents  of  which  are  partly  comic  and  partly  licentious,  all  together,  and  ex 
tempore,  but  in  such  a  manner  that  the  several  songs  thus  extemporized 
made  a  kind  of  harmony  together,  the  words,  however,  in  every  part  being 
different.  They  called  this  kind  of  extemporary  chorus  '  a  Quodlibet,' 
and  not  only  laughed  heartily  at  it  themselves,  but  excited  an  equally 
hearty  and  irresistible  laughter  in  every  body  that  heard  them.  Some 
persons  are  inclined  to  consider  these  facetis  as  the  beginning  of  comic 
operettas  in  Germany ;  but  such  quodlibets  were  usual  in  Germany  at  a 
much  earlier  period.  I  possess  myself  a  printed  collection  of  them,  which 
was  published  at  Vienna  in  1542." 

In  perfect  harmony  with  what  is  intimated  of  the  family,  of 
their  wise  content,  loving  art,  purely  and  religiously  for  its  own 
sake,  unallured  by  ambition  or  desire  for  excitement,  deep  and 
true,  simple  and  modest  in  the  virtues  of  domestic  life,  was  the 
course  of  the  greatest  of  them,  John  Sebastian.  No  man  of 
whom  we  read  has  lived  more  simply  the  grand,  quiet,  manly 
life,  "  without  haste,  without  rest."  Its  features  are  few,  its  out 
line  large  and  tranquil.  His  youth  was  a  steady  aspiration  to 
the  place  nature  intended  him  to  fill ;  as  soon  as  he  was  in  that 
place,  his  sphere  of  full,  equable  activity,  he  knew  it,  and  was 
content.  After  that  he  was  known  by  his  fruits.  As  for  out 
ward  occasions  and  honours,  it  was  with  him  as  always  with  the 
"  Happy  Warrior,"  who  must 

"  In  himself  possess  his  own  desire 
Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim  ; 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 
For  wealth,  or  honours,  or  for  worldly  state  ; 


78  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Whom  they  must  follow,  on  whose  head  must  fall, 
Like  showers  of  rnanna,  if  they  come  at  all." 

A  pretty  story  of  his  childhood  shows  that  he  was  as  earnest 
in  the  attainment  of  excellence,  as  indifferent  to  notoriety. 

"  J.  S.  Bach  was  left  an  orphan  at  ten  years  of  age,  and  was  obliged  to 
have  recourse  to  an  elder  brother,  John  Christ/opher,  who  was  organist  at 
Ordruff.  From  him  he  received  the  first  instructions  in  playing  on  the 
clavichord.  But  his  inclination  and  talent  for  music  must  have  been  al 
ready  very  great  at  that  time,  since  the  pieces  which  his  brother  gave  him 
to  learn  were  so  soon  in  his  powrer,  that  he  began  with  much  eagerness  to 
look  out  for  some  that  were  more  difficult.  He  had  observed  that  his 
brother  had  a  book,  in  which  were  pieces  by  the  most  famous  composers 
of  the  day,  such  as  he  wanted,  and  earnestly  begged  him  to  give  it  him. 
But  it  was  constantly  denied.  His  desire  to  possess  the  book  was  increased 
by  the  refusal,  so  that  he  at  length  sought  means  to  get  possession  of  it 
secretly.  As  it  was  kept  in  a  cupboard,  which  had  only  a  lattice  door,  and 
his  hands  were  still  small  enough  to  pass  through,  so  that  he  could  roll  up 
the  book,  which  was  merely  stitched  in  paper,  and  draw  it  out,  he  did 
not  long  hesitate  to  make  use  of  these  favorable  circumstances.  But,  for 
want  of  a  candle,  he  could  only  copy  it  in  moonlight  nights  ;  and  it  took 
six  whole  months  before  he  could  finish  his  laborious  task.  At  length, 
when  he  thought  himself  safely  possessed  of  the  treasure,  and  intended  to 
make  good  use  of  it  in  secret,  his  brother  found  it  out,  and  took  from  him, 
without  pity,  the  copy  which  had  cost  him  so  much  pains  ;  and  he  did  not 
recover  it  till  his  brother's  death,  which  took  place  soon  after." 

Without  pity  indeed  !  What  a  tale  is  told  by  these  few  words 
of  all  the  child  suffered  from  disappointment  of  the  hopes  and 
plans,  which  had  been  growing  in  his  heart  all  those  six  months 
of  secret  toil ;  hopes  and  plans  too,  so  legitimate,  on  which  a  true 
parent  or  guardian  would  have  smiled  such  delighted  approval ! 
One  can  scarcely  keep  down  the  swelling  heart  at  these  instances 
of  tyranny  to  children,  far  worse  than  the  knouts  and  Siberia 
of  the  Russian  despot,  in  this,  that  the  domestic  tyrant  cannot  be 
wholly  forgetful  of  the  pain  he  is  inflicting,  though  he  may  be  too 
stupid  or  too  selfish  to  forsee  the  consequences  of  these  early 


LIVES   OF  THE   GREAT  COMPOSERS. 


wrongs,  through  long  years  of  mental  conflict.  A  nature  so 
strong  and  kindly  as  that  of  Bach  could  not  be  crushed  in  such 
ways.  But  with  characters  of  less  force  the  consequences  are 
more  cruel.  I  have  known  an  instance  of  life-long  injury  from 
such  an  act  as  this.  An  elder  brother  gave  a  younger  a  book  ; 
then,  as  soon  as  the  child  became  deeply  interested  in  reading  it, 
tore  out  two  or  three  leaves.  Years  after  the  blood  boiled,  and 
the  eyes  wept  bitter  tears  of  distrust  in  human  sympathy,  at  re 
membrance  of  this  little  act  of  wanton  wrong.  And  the  conduct 
of  Bach's  brother  is  more  coldly  cruel. 

The  facts  of  his  life  are  simple.  Soon  his  great  abilities  dis 
played  themselves,  so  as  to  win  for  him  all  that  he  asked  from  life, 
a  moderate  competency,  a  home,  and  a  situation  in  which  he  could 
cultivate  his  talents  with  uninterrupted  perseverance.  A  silent 
happiness  lit  up  his  days,  deliberately,  early  he  grew  to  giant 
stature,  deeply  honoured  wherever  known,  only  not  more  widely 
known  because  indifferent  to  being  so.  No  false  lure  glitters  on 
his  life  from  any  side.  He  was  never  in  a  hurry,  nor  did  he 
ever  linger  on  the  syren  shore,  but  passed  by,  like  Orpheus,  not 
even  hearing  their  songs,  so  rapt  was  he  in  the  hymns  he  was 
singing  to  the  gods. 

Haydn  is  the  untouched  green  forest  in  the  fulness  of  a  June 
day  ;  Handel  the  illuminated  garden,  where  splendid  and  worldly 
crowds  pause  at  times  in  the  dark  alleys,  soothed  and  solemnized 
by  the  white  moonlight  ;  with  Mozart  the  nightingale  sings,  and 
the  lonely  heron  waves  his  wings,  beside  the  starlit,  secret  lake, 
on  whose  bosom  gazes  the  white  marble  temple.  Bach  is  the 
towering,  snowy  mountain,  "  itself  earth's  Rosy  Star,"  and  the 
green,  sunny,  unasking  valley,  all  in  one.  Earth  and  heaven 
are  not  lonely  while  such  men  live  to  answer  to  their  mean 
ing. 

I  had  marked  many  passages  which  give  a  clear  idea  of  Bach's 
vast  intellectual  comprehension,  of  the  happy  balance  between 


80  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

the  intuitive  and  the  reasoning  powers  in  his  nature,  the  depth 
of  his  self-reliance,  the  untiring  severity  of  his  self-criticism,  and 
the  glad,  yet  solemn  religious  fulness  of  his  mental  life.  But  al 
ready  my  due  limits  are  overstepped,  and  I  am  still  more  desir 
ous  to  speak  at  some  length  of  Beethoven.  I  shall  content  my 
self  with  two  or  three  passages,  which  not  only  indicate  the  pecu 
liar  scope  of  this  musician,  but  are  of  universal  application  to 
whatever  is  good  in  art  or  literature. 

Bombet  mentions  this  anecdote  of  Jomelli. 

"  On  arriving  at  Bologna,  he  went  to  see  the  celebrated  Father  Martini, 
without  making  himself  known,  and  begged  to  be  received  into  the  num 
ber  of  his  pupils.  Martini  gave  him  a  subject  for  a  fugue  ;  and  finding 
that  he  executed  it  in  a  superior  manner,  '  Who  are  you  ?'  said  he,  '  are 
you  making  game  of  me  ?  It  is  I  who  need  to  learn  of  you.'  '  I  am 
Jomelli,  the  professor,  who  is  to  write  the  opera  to  be  performed  here 
next  autumn,  and  I  am  come  to  ask  you  to  teach  me  the  great  art  of  never 
being  embarrassed  by  my  own  ideas.'  " 

There  seems  to  have  been  no  time  in  Bach's  life  when  he 
needed  to  ask  this  question,  the  great  one  which  Genius  ever 
asks  of  Friendship.  He  did  not  need  to  flash  out  into  clearness 
in  another  atmosphere  than  his  own.  Always  he  seems  the  mas 
ter,  possessing,  not  possessed  by,  his  idea.  These  creations  did 
not  come  upon  him  as  on  the  ancient  prophets,  dazzling,  unex 
pected,  ever  flowing  from  the  centre  of  the  universe.  He  was 
not  possessed  by  the  muse ;  he  had  not  intervals  of  the  second 
sight.  The  thought  and  the  symbol  were  one  with  him,  and  like 
Shakspeare,  he  evolved  from  his  own  centre,  rather  than  was 
drawn  to  the  centre.  He  tells  the  universe  by  living  a  self-cen 
tred  world. 

As  becomes  the  greatest,  he  is  not  hasty,  never  presumptuous. 
We  admire  it  in  the  child  Mozart,  that  he  executed  at  once  the 
musical  tour  de  force  prepared  by  the  Emperor  Francis.  We 
admire  still  more  Bach's  manly  caution  and  sense  of  the  impor- 


LIVES   OP  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  81 

tance  of  his  art,  when  visiting,  at  an   advanced  age,  the  grea 
Frederic,  who  seems  to  have  received  him  king-like. 

"  The  musicians  went  with  him  from  room  to  room,  and  Bach  was  in 
vited  everywhere  to  try  and  to  play  unpremeditated  compositions.  Afte. 
he  had  gone  on  for  some  time,  he  asked  the  King  to  give  him  a  subject 
for  a  fugue,  in  order  to  execute  it  immediately,  without  any  preparation. 
The  King  admired  the  learned  manner  in  which  his  subject  was  thus 
executed  extempore  ;  and,  probably  to  see  how  far  such  art  could  be  car 
ried,  expressed  a  wish  to  hear  a  fugue  with  six  obligate  parts.  But  as  it  is 
not  every  subject  that  is  fit  for  such  full  harmony,  Bach  chose  one  him 
self,  and  immediately  executed  it,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  present,  in 
the  same  magnificent  and  learned  manner  as  he  had  done  that  of  the 
King." 

The  following  anecdote  shows  the  same  deeply  intellectual 
modesty  and  candour,  arid  when  compared  with  the  inspired  rapid 
ity  of  Mozart,  marks  the  distinction  made  by  the  French  between 
"  une  savante  originalite"  and  "  une  rayonnante  originalite." 

**  He  at  length  acquired  such  a  high  degree  of  facility,  and,  we  may 
almost  say,  unlimited  power  over  his  instrument  in  all  the  modes,  that 
there  were  hardly  any  more  difficulties  for  him.  As  well  in  his  unpre 
meditated  fantasies,  as  in  executing  his  other  compositions,  in  which  it  is 
well  known  that  all  the  fingers  of  both  hands  are  constantly  employed. 
and  have  to  make  motions  which  are  as  strange  and  uncommon  as  the 
melodies  themselves ;  he  is  said  to  have  possessed  such  certainty  that  he 
never  missed  a  note.  He  had  besides  such  an  admirable  facility  in  reading 
and  executing  the  compositions  of  others,  (which,  indeed,  were  all  easier 
than  his  own,)  that  he  once  said  to  an  acquaintance,  that  he  really  be 
lieved  he  could  play  everything,  without  hesitating,  at  the  first  sight.  He 
was,  however,  mistaken ;  and  the  friend,  to  whom  he  had  thus  expressed  his 
opinion,  convinced  him  of  it  before  a  week  was  passed.  He  invited  him 
one  morning  to  breakfast,  and  laid  upon  the  desk  of  his  instrument,  among 
other  pieces,  one  which  at  the  first  glance  appeared  to  be  very  trifling. 
Bach  came,  and,  according  to  his  custom,  went  immediately  to  the  instru 
ment,  partly  to  play,  partly  to  look  over  the  music  that  lay  on  the  desk. 
While  he  was  turning  over  and  playing  them,  his  friend  went  into  the 
next  room  to  prepare  breakfast.  In  a  few  minutes,  Bach  got  to  the  piece 

4* 


PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


which  was  destined  to  make  him  change  his  opinion,  and  began  to  play 
it.  But  he  had  not  proceeded  far  when  he  came  to  a  passage  at  which  he 
stopped.  He  looked  at  it,  began  anew,  and  again  stopped  at  the  same 
passage.  '  No,'  he  called  out  to  his  friend,  who  was  laughing  to  himself 
in  the  next  room,  at  the  same  time  going  away  from  the  instrument,  *  one 
cannot  play  everything  at  first  sight ;  it  is  not  possible.'  " 

A  few  more  extracts  which  speak  for  themselves. 

"  The  clavichord  and  the  organ  are  nearly  related,  but  the  style  and 
mode  of  managing  both  instruments  are  as  different  as  their  respective 
destination.  What  sounds  well,  or  expresses  something  on  the  clavichord, 
expresses  nothing  on  the  organ,  and  vice  versa.  The  best  player  on  the 
clavichord,  if  he  is  not  duly  acquainted  with  the  difference  in  the  destina 
tion  and  object  of  the  two  instruments,  and  does  not  know  constantly  how 
to  keep  it  in  view,  will  always  be  a  bad  performer  on  the  organ,  as  indeed 
is  usually  the  case.  Hitherto  I  have  met  with  only  two  exceptions.  The 
one  is  John  Sebastian  himself,  and  the  second  his  eldest  son,  William 
Friedemann.  Both  were  elegant  performers  on  the  clavichord  ;  but,  when 
they  came  to  the  organ,  no  trace  of  the  harpsichord  player  was  to  be  per 
ceived.  Melody,  harmony,  motion,  all  was  different;  that  is,  all  was 
adapted  to  the  nature  of  the  instrument  and  its  destination.  When  I  heard 
Will  Friedemann  on  the  harpsichord,  all  was  delicate,  elegant,  and  agree 
able.  When  I  heard  him  on  the  organ,  I  was  seized  with  reverential  awe. 
There,  all  was  pretty,  here,  all  was  grand  and  solemn.  The  same  was  the 
case  with  John  Sebastian,  but  both  in  a  much  higher  degree  of  perfection. 
W.  Friedemann  was  here  but  a  child  to  his  father,  and  he  most  frankly 
concurred  in  this  opinion.  The  organ  compositions  of  this  extraordinary 
man  are  full  of  the  expression  of  devotion,  solemnity,  and  dignity  ;  but  his 
unpremeditated  voluntaries  on  the  organ,  where  nothing  was  lost  in  wri 
ting  down,  are  said  to  have  been  still  more  devout,  solemn,  dignified,  and 
sublime.  What  is  it  that  is  most  essential  in  this  art  ?  I  will  say  what  I 
know  ;  much,  however,  cannot  be  said,  but  must  be  felt." 

Then  after  some  excellent  observations  upon  the  organ,  he 
says, 

"  Bach,  even  in  his  secular  compositions,  disdained  every  thing  com 
mon  ;  but  in  his  compositions  for  the  organ,  he  kept  himself  far  more  dis 
tant  from  it;  so  that  here  he  does  not  appear  like  a  man,  but  as  a  true  dis 
embodied  spirit,  who  soars  above  everything  mortal." 


LIVES  OP  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  83 

It  does  indeed  seem,  from  all  that  is  said  of  Bach  on  this  score, 
that,  as  the  organ  was  his  proper  instrument,  and  represents  him, 
as  the  flute  or  violin  might  Mozart,  so  he  that  heard  him  on  it 
enjoyed  the  sense  of  the  true  Miltonic  Creation,  thought  too 
plenteous  to  be  spoken  of  as  rill,  or  stream,  or  fountain,  but  roll 
ing  and  surging  like  a  tide,  marking  its  course  by  the  large 
divisions  of  seas  and  continents. 

I  wish  there  was  room  to  quote  the  fine  story  of  the  opera  house 
at  Berlin,  p.  34,  which  shows  how  rapid  and  comprehensive  was 
his  intellectual  sight  in  his  own  department ;  or  the  remarks  on 
the  nature  of  his  harmony  in  that  it  was  a  multiplied  melody,  pp. 
42,  43,  or  on  the  severe  truth  and  dignity  of  his  conduct  to  his 
pupils  and  the  public,  p.  76.  But  I  must  content  myself  with 
the  following  passages,  which,  beside,  lose  much  by  mutilation. 

"  The  ideas  of  harmony  and  modulation  can  scarcely  be  separated,  so 
nearly  are  they  related  to  each  other.  And  yet  they  are  different.  By 
harmony  we  must  understand  the  concord  or  coincidence  of  the  various 
parts  ;  by  modulation,  their  progression. 

"  In  most  composers  you  find  that  their  modulation,  or  if  you  will,  their 
harmony,  advances  slowly.  In  musical  pieces  to  be  executed  by  numer 
ous  performers,  in  large  buildings,  as,  for  example,  in  churches,  where  a 
loud  sound  can  die  away  but  slowly,  this  arrangement  indisputably  shows 
the  prudence  of  a  composer,  who  wishes  to  have  his  work  produce  the 
best  possible  effect.  But  in  instrumental  or  chamber  music,  that  slow  pro 
gress  is  not  a  proof  of  prudence,  but,  far  oftener,  a  sign  that  the  composer 
was  not  sufficiently  rich  in  ideas.  Bach  has  distinguished  this  very  well. 
In  his  great  vocal  compositions,  he  well  knew  how  to  repress  his  fancy, 
which,  otherwise,  overflowed  with  ideas ;  but,  in  his  instrumental  music 
this  reserve  was  not  necessary.  As  he,  besides,  never  worked  for  the 
crowd,  but  always  had  in  his  mind  his  ideal  of  perfection,  without  any 
view  to  approbation  or  the  like,  he  had  no  reason  whatever  for  giving  less 
than  he  had,  and  could  give,  and  in  fact  he  has  never  done  this.  Hence 
in  the  modulation  of  his  instrumental  works,  every  advance  is  a  new 
thought,  a  constantly  progressive  life  and  motion,  within  the  circle  of  the 
modes  chosen,  and  those  nearly  related  to  them.  Of  the  harmony  which 
he  adopts  he  retains  the  greatest  part,  but,  at  every  advance  he  mingles 


84  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

something  related  to  it ;  and  in  this  manner  he  proceeds  to  the  end  of  a 
piece,  so  softly,  so  gently,  and  gradually,  that  no  leap,  or  harsh  transition 
is  to  be  felt;  and  yet  no  bar  (I  may  almost  say,  no  part  of  a  bar,)  is  like 
another.  With  him,  every  transition  was  required  to  have  a  connexion 
with  the  preceding  idea,  and  appears  to  be  a  necessary  consequence  of  it. 
He  knew  not,  or  rather  he  disdained  those  sudden  sallies,  by  which  many 
composers  attempt  to  surprise  their  hearers.  Even  in  his  chromatics,  the 
advances  are  so  soft  and  tender,  that  we  scarcely  perceive  their  distances, 
though  often  very  great." 

"In  other  departments  he  had  rivals;  but  in  the  fugue,  and  all  the 
kinds  of  canon  and  counterpoint  related  to  it,  he  stands  quite  alone,  and  so 
alone,  that  all  around  him,  is,  as  it  were,  desert  and  void. 
It  (his  fugue)  fulfils  all  the  conditions  which  we  are  otherwise  accustomed 
to  demand,  only  of  more  free  species  of  composition.  A  highly  charac 
teristic  theme,  an  uninterrupted  principal  melody,  wholly  derived  from  it, 
and  equally  characteristic  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  ;  not  mere  accom 
paniment  in  the  other  parts,  but  in  each  of  them  an  independent  melody, 
according  with  the  others,  also  from  the  beginning  to  the  end ;  freedom, 
lightness,  and  fluency  in  the  progress  of  the  whole,  inexhaustible  variety 
of  modulation  combined  with  perfect  purity ;  the  exclusion  of  every  arbi 
trary  note,  not  necessarily  belonging  to  the  whole  ;  unity  and  diversity  in 
the  style,  rhythmus,  and  measure ;  and  lastly,  a  life  diffused  through  the 
whole,  so  that  it  sometimes  appears  to  the  performer  or  hearer,  as  if  every 
single  note  were  animated  ;  these  are  the  properties  of  Bach's  fugue, — 
properties  which  excite  admiration  and  astonishment  in  every  judge,  who 
knows  what  a  mass  of  intellectual  energy  is  required  for  the  production  of 
such  works.  I  must  say  still  more.  All  Bach's  fugues,  composed  in  the 
years  of  his  maturity,  have  the  above-mentioned  properties  in  common ; 
they  are  all  endowed  with  equally  great  excellencies,  but  each  in  a  differ 
ent  manner.  Each  has  his  own  precisely  defined  character ;  and  depen 
dent  upon  that,  its  own  turns  in  melody  and  harmony.  When  we  know 
and  can  perform  one,  we  really  know  only  one,  and  can  perform  but  one  ; 
whereas  we  know  and  can  play  whole  folios  full  of  fugues  by  other  com 
posers  of  Bach's  time,  as  soon  as  we  have  comprehended  and  rendered  fa 
miliar  to  our  hand,  the  turns  of  a  single  one." 

He  disdained  any  display  of  his  powers.  If  they  were  made 
obvious  otherwise  than  in  the  beauty  and  fullness  of  what  was 
produced,  it  was  in  such  a  way  as  this. 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  85 

**  In  musical  parties,  where  quartettes  or  other  fuller  pieces  of  instru 
mental  music  were  performed,  he  took  pleasure  in  playing  the  tenor. 
With  this  instrument,  he  was,  as  it  were,  in  the  middle  of  the  harmony, 
whence  he  could  both  hear  and  enjoy  it,  on  both  sides.  When  an  oppor 
tunity  offered,  in  such  parties,  he  sometimes  accompanied  a  trio  or  other 
pieces  on  the  harpsichord.  If  he  was  in  a  cheerful  mood,  and  knew  that 
the  composer  of  the  piece,  if  present,  would  not  take  it  amiss,  he  used 
to  make  extempore  out  of  the  figured  bass  a  new  trio,  or  of  three  single 
parts  a  quartette.  These,  however,  are  the  only  cases  in  which  he  proved 
to  others  how  strong  he  was. 

"  He  was  fond  of  hearing  the  music  of  other  composers.  If  he  heard 
in  a  church  a  fugue  for  a  full  orchestra,  and  one  of  his  two  eldest  sons 
stood  near  him,  he  always,  as  soon  as  he  had  heard  the  introduction  to 
the  theme,  said  beforehand  what  the  composer  ought  to  introduce,  and 
what  possibly  might  be  introduced.  If  the  composer  had  performed  his 
work  well,  what  he  had  said  happened  ;  then  he  rejoiced,  and  jogged  his 
son  to  make  him  observe  it." 

He  did  not  publish  a  work  till  he  was  forty  years  of  age.  He 
never  laid  aside  the  critical  file  through  all  his  life,  so  that  an 
edition  of  his  works,  accompanied  by  his  own  corrections,  would 
be  the  finest  study  for  the  musician. 

This  severe  ideal  standard,  and  unwearied  application  in  real 
izing  it,  made  his  whole  life  a  progress,  and  the  epithet  old,  which 
too  often  brings  to  our  minds  associations  of  indolence  or  decay, 
was  for  him  the  title  of  honour.  It  is  noble  and  imposing  when 
Frederic  the  Second  says  to  his  courtiers,  "  with  a  kind  of  agita. 
tion,  *  Gentlemen,  Old  Bach  has  come.7  J: 

"  He  laboured  for  himself,  like  every  true  genius  ;  he  fulfilled  his  own 
wish,  satisfied  his  own  taste,  chose  his  subjects  according  to  his  own 
opinion,  and  lastly,  derived  the  most  pleasure  from  his  own  approbation. 
The  applause  of  connoisseurs  could  not  then  fail  him,  and,  in  fact,  never 
did  fail  him.  How  else  could  a  real  work  of  art  be  produced  ?  The  artist, 
who  endeavours  to  make  his  works  so  as  to  suit  some  particular  class  of 
amateurs,  either  has  no  genius,  or  abuses  it.  To  follow  the  prevailing 
taste  of  the  many,  needs,  at  the  most,  some  dexterity  in  a  very  partial 
mariner  of  treating  tones.  Artists  of  this  description  may  be  compared  to 


86  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

the  mechanic,  who  must  also  make  his  goods  so  that  his  customers  can 
make  use  of  them.  Bach  never  submitted  to  such  conditions.  He  thought 
the  artist  may  form  the  public,  but  that  the  public  does  not  form  the 
artist." 

But  it  would  please  me  best,  if  I  could  print  here  the  whole  of 
the  "concluding  chapter  of  this  little  book.  It  shows  a  fulness 
and  depth  of  feeling,  objects  are  seen  from  a  high  platform  of  cul 
ture,  which  make  it  invaluable  to  those  of  us  who  are  groping  in 
a  denser  atmosphere  after  the  beautiful.  It  is  a  slight  scroll, 
which  implies  ages  of  the  noblest  effort,  and  so  clear  a  perception 
of  laws,  that  its  expression,  if  excessive  in  the  particular,  is  never 
extravagant  on  the  whole  ;  a  true  and  worthy  outpouring  of 
homage,  so  true  that  its  most  technical  details  suggest  the  canons 
by  which  all  the  various  exhibitions  of  man's  genius  are  to  be 
viewed,  and  silences,  with  silver  clarion  tone,  the  barking  of 
partial  and  exclusive  connoisseurship.  The  person  who  should 
republish  such  a  book  in  this  country  would  be  truly  a  benefactor. 
Both  this  and  the  Life  of  Handel  I  have  seen  only  in  the  London 
edition.  The  latter  is  probably  out  of  print ;  but  the  substance 
of  it,  or  rather  the  only  pregnant  traits  from  it  have  been  given 
here.  This  life  of  Bach  should  be  read,  as  its  great  subject 
should  be  viewed,  as  a  whole. 

The  entertaining  memoir  of  Beethoven  by  Ries  and  Wegeler 
has  been,  in  some  measure,  made  known  to  us  through  the 
English  periodicals.  I  have  never  seen  the  book  myself.  That  to 
which  I  shall  refer  is  the  life  of  Beethoven  by  Schindler,  to  whom 
Beethoven  confided  the  task  of  writing  it,  in  case  of  the  failure 
of  another  friend,  whom  he  somewhat  preferred. 

Schindler,  if  inadequate  to  take  an  observation  of  his  subject 
from  any  very  high  point  of  view,  has  the  merit  of  simplicity, 
fidelity,  strict  accuracy  according  to  his  power  of  discerning, 
and  a  devout  reverence  both  for  the  art,  and  this  greatest  ex 
emplar  of  the  art.  He  is  one  of  those  devout  Germans  who  can 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  87 

cling  for  so  many  years  to  a  single  flower,  nor  feel  that  they  have 
rifled  all  its  sweets.  There  are  in  Rome,  Germans  who  give 
their  lives  to  copy  the  great  masters  in  the  art  of  painting,  nor 
ever  feel  that  they  can  get  deep  enough  into  knowledge  of  the 
beauty  already  produced  to  pass  out  into  reproduction.  They 
would  never  weary  through  the  still  night  of  tending  the  lights 
for  the  grand  Mass.  Schindler  is  of  this  stamp  ;  a  patient  stu 
dent,  most  faithful,  and,  those  of  more  electric  natures  will  per 
haps  say,  a^little  dull. 

He  is  very  indignant  at  the  more  sprightly  sketches  of  Ries 
and  Bettina  Brentano.  Ries,  indeed,  is  probably  inaccurate  in 
detail,  yet  there  is  a  truth  in  the  whole  impression  received  from 
him.  It  was  in  the  first  fervour  of  his  youth  that  he  knew  Bee 
thoven  ;  he  was  afterwards  long  separated  from  him  ;  in  his  book 
we  must  expect  to  see  rather  Ries,  under  the  influence  of  Beetho 
ven,  than  the  master's  self.  Yet  there  is  always  deeper  truth  in 
this  manifestation  of  life  through  life,  if  we  can  look  at  it  aright, 
than  in  any  attempt  at  an  exact  copy  of  the  original.  Let  only 
the  reader  read  poetically,  and  Germany  by  Madame  de  Stae'l, 
Wallenstein  by  Schiller,  Beethoven  by  Ries,  are  not  the  less  true 
for  being  inaccurate.  It  is  the  same  as  with  the  Madonna  by 
Guido,  or  by  Murillo. 

As  for  Bettina,  it  was  evident  to  every  discerning  reader  that 
the  great  man  never  talked  so ;  the  whole  narration  is  overflowed 
with  Bettina  rose-colour.  Schindler  grimly  says,  the  good  Bet 
tina  makes  him  appear  as  a  Word  Hero  ;  and  we  cannot  but 
for  a  moment  share  his  contempt,  as  we  admire  the  granite  lacon- 
ism  of  Beethoven's  real  style,  which  is  beyond  any  other,  the  short 
hand  of  Genius.  Yet  "  the  good  Bettina"  gives  us  the  soul  of  the 
matter.  Her  description  of  his  manner  of  seizing  a  melody 
and  then  gathering  together  from  every  side  all  that  belonged  to 
it,  and  the  saying,  "  other  men  are  touched  by  something  good. 
Artists  are  fiery  ;  they  do  not  weep,"  are  Beethoven's,  whether 


PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


he  really  said  them  or  not.  "  You  say  that  Shakspeare  never 
meant  to  express  this  !  What  then  ?  his  genius  meant  it !" 

The  impression  Schindler  gives  of  Beethoven  differs  from  that 
given  by  Ries  or  Bettina  only  in  this,  that  the  giant  is  seen 
through  uncoloured  glass ;  the  lineaments  are  the  same  in  all  the 
three  memoirs. 

The  direction  left  by  Beethoven  himself  to  his  biographer  is  as 
follows.  "  Tell  the  truth  with  severe  fidelity  of  me  and  all  con 
nected  with  me,  without  regard  to  whom  it  may  hit,  whether 
others  or  myself." 

He  was  born  17th  Dec.  1770.  It  is  pleasing  to  the  fancy  to 
know  that  his  mother's  name  was  Maria  Magdalena.  She  died 
when  he  was  seventeen,  so  that  a  cabalistic  number  repeats  itself 
the  magical  three  times  in  the  very  first  statement  of  his  destiny. 

The  first  thirty  years  of  his  life  were  all  sunshine.  His  ge 
nius  was  early  acknowledged,  and  princely  friends  enabled  him 
to  give  it  free  play,  by  providing  for  his  simple  wants  in  daily 
life.  Notwithstanding  his  uncompromising  democracy,  which, 
from  the  earliest  period,  paid  no  regard  to  rank  and  power,  but 
insisted  that  those  he  met  should  show  themselves  worthy  as  men 
and  citizens,  before  he  would  have  anything  to  do  with  them,  he 
was  received  with  joy  into  the  highest  circles  of  Vienna.  Van 
Swieten,  the  emperor's  physician,  one  of  those  Germans,  who, 
after  the  labors  of  the  day,  find  rest  in  giving  the  whole  night  to 
music,  and  who  was  so  situated  that  he  could  collect  round  him 
all  that  was  best  in  the  art,  was  one  of  his  firmest  friends.  Prince 
and  Princess  Lichnowsky  constituted  themselves  his  foster-pa 
rents,  and  were  not  to  be  deterred  from  their  wise  and  tender 
care  by  the  often  perverse  and  impetuous  conduct  of  their  adopted 
son,  who  indeed  tried  them  severely,  for  he  was  (ein  gewaltig 
natur)  "  a  vehement  nature,"  that  broke  through  all  limits  and 
always  had  to  run  his  head  against  a  barrier,  before  he  could  be 
convinced  of  its  existence.  Of  the  princess,  Beethoven  says  : 


LIVES   OF  THE  GREAT   COMPOSERS. 


"  With  love  like  that  of  a  grandmother,  she  sought  to  educate  and 
foster  me,  which  she  carried  so  far  as  often  to  come  near  having 
a  glass  bell  put  over  me,  lest  somewhat  unworthy  should  touch  or 
even  breathe  on  me."  Their  house  is  described  as  "eine  frei- 
hafen  der  Humanitat  und  feinem  sitte,"  the  home  of  all  that  is 
genial,  noble  and  refined. 

In  these  first  years,  the  displays  of  his  uncompromising  nature 
affect  us  with  delight,  for  they  have  not  yet  that  hue  of  tragedy, 
which  they  assumed  after  he  was  brought  more  decidedly  into  op 
position  with  the  world.  Here  wildly  great  and  free,  as  after 
wards  sternly  and  disdainfully  so,  he  is,  waxing  or  waning,  still 
the  same  orb ;  here  more  fairly,  there  more  pathetically  noble. 

He  early  took  the  resolution,  by  which  he'  held  fast  through 
life,  "  against  criticisms  or  attacks  of  any  kind,  so  long  as  they 
did  not  touch  his  honour,  but  were  aimed  solely  at  his  artist-life, 
never  to  defend  himself.  He  was  not  indifferent  to  the  opinion  of 
the  good,  but  ignored  as  much  as  possible  the  assaults  of  the  bad, 
even  when  they  went  so  far  as  to  appoint  him  a  place  in  the  mad 
house."  For  that  vein  in  human  nature,  which  has  flowed  un 
exhausted  ever  since  the  days  of  "  I  am  not  mad,  most  noble  Fes- 
tus,"  making  men  class  as  magic  or  madness  all  that  surpasses 
the  range  of  their  comprehension  and  culture,  manifested  itself 
in  full  energy  among  the  contemporaries  of  Beethoven.  When 
he  published  one  of  his  greatest  works,  the  critics  declared  him 
"  now  (in  the  very  meridian  of  his  genius)  ripe  for  the  mad-house." 
For  why  ?  "  WE  do  not  understand  it ;  WE  never  had  such 
thoughts  ;  we  cannot  even  read  and  execute  them."  Ah  men  ! 
almost  your  ingratitude  doth  at  times  convince  that  you  are 
wholly  unworthy  the  visitations  of  the  Divine  ! 

But  Beethoven  "  was  an  artist-nature  ;"  he  had  his  work  to  do, 
and  could  not  stop  to  weep,  either  pitying  or  indignant  tears. 
"  If  it  amuses  those  people  to  say  or  to  write  such  things  of  me, 


90  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

do  not  disturb  them,"  was  his  maxim,  to  which  he  remained  true 
through  all  the  calamities  of  his  "  artist-life." 

Gentleness  and  forbearance  were  virtues  of  which  he  was  inca 
pable.  His  spirit  was  deeply  loving,  but  stern.  Incapable  him 
self  of  vice  or  meanness,  he  could  not  hope  anything  from  men 
that  were  not  so.  He  could  not  try  experiments ;  he  could  not 
pardon.  If  at  all  dissatisfied  with  a  man,  he  had  done  with  him 
forever.  This  uncompromising  temper  he  carried  out  even  in 
his  friendliest  relations.  The  moment  a  man  ceased  to  be  impor 
tant  to  him  or  he  to  the  man,  he  left  off  seeing  him,  and  they  did 
not  meet  again,  perhaps  for  twenty  years.  But  when  they  did 
meet,  the  connexion  was  full  and  true  as  at  first.  The  incon 
veniences  of  such  proceedings  in  the  conventional  world  are  ob 
vious,  but  Beethoven  knew  only  the  world  of  souls. 

"  In  man  he  saw  only  the  man.  Rank  and  wealth  were  to  him  mere 
accidents,  to  which  he  attached  no  importance.  To  bow  before  Mammon 
and  his  ministers  he  considered  absolute  blasphemy ;  the  deepest  degra 
dation  to  the  man  who  had  genius  for  his  dower.  The  rich  man  must 
show  himself  noble  and  beneficent,  if  he  would  be  honoured  by  the  least 
attention  from  Beethoven."  "  He  thought  that  the  Spirit,  the  Divine  in 
man,  must  always  maintain  its  preeminence  over  the  material  and  tem 
porary  ;  that,  being  the  immediate  gift  of  the  Creator,  it  obliged  its  pos 
sessor  to  go  before  other  men  as  a  guiding  light." 

How  far  his  high  feeling  of  responsibility,  and  clear  sight  of 
his  own  position  in  the  universe  were  from  arrogance,  he  showed 
always  by  his  aversion  to  servile  homage.  He  left  one  of  his 
lodging  houses  because  the  people  would  crowd  the  adjacent 
bridge  to  gaze  on  him  as  he  went  out ;  another  because  the  aris 
tocratic  proprietor,  abashed  before  his  genius,  would  never  meet 
him  without  making  so  many  humble  reverences,  as  if  to  a  do 
mesticated  god.  He  says,  in  one  of  the  letters  to  Julietta,  "  I  am 
persecuted  by  kindness,  which  I  think  I  wish  to  deserve  as  little 
as  I  really  do  deserve  it.  Humility  of  man  before  man, — it  pains 
me ;  and  when  I  regard  myself  in  connexion  with  the  universe, 


LIVES  OF  THE   GREAT  COMPOSERS.  91 

what  am  I  ?  and  what  is  he  whom  they  name  Greatest  ?     And 
yet  there  is  the  godlike  in  man." 

"  Notwithstanding  the  many  temptations  to  which  he  was  exposed,  he, 
like  each  other  demigod,  knew  how  to  preserve  his  virtue  without  a  stain. 
Thus  his  inner  sense  for  virtue  remained  ever  pure,  nor  could  he  suffer 
anything  about  him  of  dubious  aspect  on  the  moral  side.  In  this  respect 
he  was  conscious  of  no  error,  but  made  his  pilgrimage  through  life  in  un 
touched  maidenly  purity.  The  serene  muse,  who  had  so  highly  gifted  and 
elected  him  to  her  own  service,  gave  in  every  wise  to  his  faculties  the  up 
ward  direction,  and  protected  him,  even  in  artistical  reference,  against  the 
slightest  contact  with  vulgarity,  which,  in  life  as  in  art,  was  to  him  a  tor 
ture." — "  Ah,  had  he  but  carried  the  same  clearness  into  the  business 
transactions  of  his  life  !  ** 

So  sighs  the  friend,  who  thinks  his  genius  was  much  impeded 
by  the  transactions,  in  which  his  want  of  skill  entangled  him  with 
sordid,  contemptible  persons. 

Thus  in  unbroken  purity  and  proud  self-respect,  amid  princely 
bounties  and  free,  manly  relations,  in  the  rapid  and  harmonious 
development  of  his  vast  powers,  passed  the  first  thirty  years  of 
his  life.  But  towards  the  close  of  that  period,  crept  upon  him 
the  cruel  disorder,  to  him  of  all  men  the  most  cruel,  which  im 
mured  him  a  prisoner  in  the  heart  of  his  own  kingdom,  and  beg 
gared  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life  of  the  delights  he  never  ceased 
to  lavish  on  others. 

After  his  fate  was  decided  he  never  complained,  but  what  lay 
in  the  secret  soul  is  shown  by  the  following  paper. 

"  During  the  summer  he  lived  at  Heiligenstadt,  by  the  advice  of  his 
physician,  and  in  the  autumn  wrote  the  following  testament : — 
"For  my  brothers  Carl  and Beethoven. 

"  0  ye  men,  who  esteem  or  declare  me  unkind,  morose,  or  misanthropic, 
what  injustice  you  do  me;  you  know  not  the  secret  causes  of  that  which 
so  seems.  My  heart  and  my  mind  were  from  childhood  disposed  to  the 
tender  feelings  of  good  will.  Even  to  perform  great  actions  was  I  ever 
disposed.  But  think  only  that  for  six  years  this  ill  has  been  growing  upon 


92  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

me,  made  worse  by  unwise  physicians ;  that  from  year  to  year  I  have  been 
deceived  in  the  hope  of  growing  better ;  finally  constrained  to  the  survey 
of  this  as  a  permanent  evil,  whose  cure  will  require  years,  or  is  perhaps 
impossible.  Born  with  a  fiery,  lively  temperament,  even  susceptible  to 
the  distractions  of  society,  must  I  early  sever  myself,  lonely  pass  my  life. 
If  I  attempted,  in  spite  of  my  ill,  intercourse  with  others,  0  how  cruelly 
was  I  then  repulsed  by  the  doubly  gloomy  experience  of  my  bad  hearing  ; 
and  yet  it  was  not  possible  for  me  to  say  to  men,  speak  louder,  scream,  for 
I  am  deaf!  Ah,  how  would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  make  known  the 
weakness  of  a  sense  which  ought  to  be  more  perfect  in  me  than  in  others, 
a  sense  which  I  once  possessed  in  the  greatest  perfection,  in  a  perfection 
certainly  beyond  most  of  my  profession.  0  I  cannot  do  it  Therefore 
pardon,  if  you  see  me  draw  back  when  I  would  willingly  mingle  with 
you.  My  misfortune  is  a  double  woe,  that  through  it  I  must  be  misunder 
stood.  For  me  the  refreshment  of  companionship,  the  finer  pleasures  of 
conversation,  mutual  outpourings  can  have  no  place.  As  an  exile  must 
I  live  !  If  I  approach  a  company,  a  hot  anguish  falls  upon  me,  while  I 
fear  to  be  put  in  danger  of  exposing  my  situation.  So  has  it  been  this 
half  year  that  I  have  passed  in  the  country.  The  advice  of  my  friendly 
physician,  that  I  should  spare  my  hearing,  suited  well  my  present  disposi 
tion,  although  many  times  I  have  let  myself  be  misled  by  the  desire  for 
society.  But  what  humiliation,  when  some  one  stood  near  me,  and  from 
afar  heard  the  flute,  and  I  heard  nothing,  or  heard  the  Shepherd  sing,* 
and  I  heard  nothing.  Such  occurrences  brought  me  near  to  despair ;  lit 
tle  was  wanting  that  I  should,  myself,  put  an  end  to  my  life.  Only  she, 
Art,  she  held  me  back  !  Ah  !  it  seemed  to  me  impossible  to  leave  the 
world  before  I  had  brought  to  light  all  which  lay  in  my  mind.  And  so  I 
lengthened  out  this  miserable  life,  so  truly  miserable,  as  that  a  swift 
change  can  throw  me  from  the  best  state  into  the  worst.  Patience,  it  is 
said,  I  must  now  take  for  my  guide.  I  have  so.  Constant,  I  hope,  shall 
my  resolution  be  to  endure  till  the  inexorable  Fates  shall  be  pleased  to 
break  the  thread.  Perhaps  goes  it  better,  perhaps  not,  I  am  prepared. 
Already  in  my  twenty-eighth  year  constrained  to  become  a  philosopher. 
It  is  not  easy,  for  the  artist  harder  than  any  other  man.  O  God,  thou 
lookest  down  upon  my  soul,  thou  knowest  that  love  to  man  and  inclination 
to  well-doing  dwell  there.  0  men,  when  you  at  some  future  time  read 
this,  then  think  that  you  have  done  me  injustice,  and  the  unhappy,  let 

*  See  Ries. 


LIVES  OF   THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  93 

him  be  comforted  by  finding  one  of  his  race,  who  in  defiance  of  all 
hindrances  of  nature  has  done  all  possible  to  him  to  be  received  in  the 

rank  of  worthy  artists  and  men.     You,  my  brothers,  Carl  and *,  so 

soon  as  I  am  dead,  if  Professor  Schmidt  is  yet  living,  pray  him  in  my 
name  that  he  will  describe  my  disease,  and  add  this  writing  to  the  account 
of  it,  that  at  least  as  much  as  possible  the  world  may  be  reconciled  with 
me  after  my  death.  At  the  same  time  I  declare  you  two  the  heirs  of  my  little 
property,  (if  I  may  call  it  so).  Divide  it  honourably,  agree,  and  help  one 
another.  What  you  have  done  against  me  has  been,  as  you  know,  long 
since  pardoned.  Thee,  brother  Carl,  I  especially  thank  for  thy  lately 
shown  attachment.  My  wish  is  that  you  may  have  a  better  life,  freer  from 
care  than  mine.  Recommend  to  your  children  virtue,  that  alone  can 
make  happy,  not  gold.  I  speak  from  experience.  For  this  it  was  that 
raised  up  myself  from  misery  ;  this  and  rny  art  I  thank,  that  I  did  not  end 
my  life  by  my  own  hand.  Farewell  and  love  one  another.  A1.!  friends  I 
thank,  especially  Prince  Lichnowsky  and  Professor  Schmidt.  I  wish  the 
instruments  given  me  by  Prince  L.  to  be  preserved  with  care  by  one  of 
you,  yet  let  no  strife  arise  between  you  on  that  account.  So  soon  as 
they  are  needed  for  some  more  useful  purpose,  sell  them.  Joyful  am  I 
that  even  in  the  grave  I  may  be  of  use  to  you.  Thus  with  joy  may  I  greet 
death  ;  yet  comes  it  earlier  than  I  can  unfold  my  artist  powers,  it  will, 
notwithstanding  my  hard  destiny,  come  too  early,  and  I  would  wish  it  de 
layed  ;  however  I  would  be  satisfied  that  it  freed  me  from  a  state  of  end 
less  suffering.  Come  when  thou  wilt,  I  go  courageously  to  meet  thee. 
Farewell,  and  forget  me  not  wholly  in  death  ;  I  have  deserved  that  you 
should  not,  for  in  my  life  I  thought  often  of  you,  and  of  making  you 
happy ;  be  so. 

"  LUDWIG  VAN  BEETHOVEN. 
"  Heiligenstadt,  6th  October,  1802." 

"  Postscript.    10th  October,  1802. 

"  So  take  I  then  a  sad  farewell  of  thee.  Yes  !  the  beloved  hope,  which 
I  brought  hither,  to  be  cured  at  least  to  a  certain  point,  must  now  wholly 
leave  me.  As  the  leaves  fall  in  autumn,  are  withered,  so  has  also  this 
withered  for  me.  Almost  as  I  came  hither,  so  go  I  forth,  even  the  high 
courage,  which  inspired  me  oft  in  the  fair  summer  days,  is  vanished.  O 
Providence,  let  once  again  a  clear  day  of  joy  shine  for  me,  so  long  already 

*  He  seems  to  have  forgotten  at  the  moment  the  name  of  his  younger  brother. 


94  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

has  the  inward  echo  of  true  joy  been  unknown  to  me.  When,  when,  0 
God,  can  I  feel  it  again  in  the  temple  of  nature  and  of  man  ? — Never  ? 
No  !  that  would  be  too  cruel !  " 

The  deep  love  shown  in  these  words,  love  such  as  only  proud 
and  strong  natures  know,  was  not  only  destined  to  be  wounded 
in  its  general  relations  with  mankind  through  this  calamity. 
The  woman  he  loved,  the  inspiring  muse  of  some  of  his  divinest 
compositions,  to  whom  he  writes,  "  Is  not  our  love  a  true  heavenly 
palace,  also  as  firm  as  the  fortress  of  heaven,"  was  unworthy. 
In  a  world  where  millions  of  souls  are  pining  and  perishing  for 
want  of  an  inexhaustible  fountain  of  love  and  grandeur,  this  soul, 
which  was  indeed  such  an  one,  could  love  in  vain.  This  eldest 
son,  this  rightful  heir  of  nature,  in  some  secret  hour,  writes  at 
this  period,  "  Only  love,  that  alone  could  give  thee  a  happier 
life.  O  my  God,  let  me  only  find  at  last  that  which  may  strength 
en  me  in  virtue,  which  to  me  is  lawful.  A  love  which  is  per 
mitted,  (erlaubt)." 

The  prayer  was  unheard.  He  was  left  lonely,  unsustained, 
unsolaced,  to  wrestle  with,  to  conquer  his  fate.  Pierced  here  in 
the  very  centre  of  his  life,  exposed  both  by  his  misfortune  and  a 
nature  which  could  neither  anticipate  nor  contend  with  the  de 
signs  of  base  men,  to  the  anguish  of  meeting  ingratitude  on  every 
side,  abandoned  to  the  guardianship  of  his  wicked  brothers,  Bee 
thoven  walked  in  night,  as  regards  the  world,  but  within,  the 
heavenly  light  ever  overflowed  him  more  and  more. 

Shall  lesser  beings  repine  that  they  do  not  receive  their  dues 
in  this  short  life  with  such  an  example  before  them,  how  large 
the  scope  of  eternal  justice  must  be?  Who  can  repine  that 
thinks  of  Beethoven  ?  His  was  indeed  the  best  consolation  of  life. 
"  To  him  a  God  gave  to  tell  what  he  suffered,"  as  also  the  deep 
joys  of  knowledge  that  spring  from  suffering.  As  he  descends 
to  "  the  divine  deeps  of  sorrow,"  and  calls  up,  with  spells  known 
only  to  those  so  initiated,  forms  so  far  more  holy,  radiant,  and 


LIVES   OF  THE   GREAT  COMPOSERS.  95 

commanding  than  are  known  in  regions  of  cheerful  light,  can  we 
wish  him  a  happier  life  ?  He  has  been  baptized  with  fire,  others 
only  with  water.  He  has  given  all  his  life  and  won  the  holy 
sepulchre  and  a  fragment,  at  least,  of  the  true  cross.  The  solemn 
command,  the  mighty  controul  of  various  forces  which  makes 
us  seem  to  hear 

**  Time  flowing  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
And  all  things  (rushing)  to  the  day  of  doom," 

the  searching  through  all  the  caverns  of  life  for  the  deepest 
thought,  and  the  winged  uprise  of  feeling  when  it  is  attained  ; 
were  not  these  wonders  much  aided  by  the  calamity,  which  took 
this  great  genius  from  the  outward  world,  and  forced  him  to  con 
centrate  just  as  he  had  attained  command  of  his  forces  ? 

Friendly  affection,  indeed,  was  not  wanting  to  the  great 
master  ;  but  who  could  be  his  equal  friend  ?  It  was  impossible  ; 
he  might  have  found  a  love,  but  could  not  a  friend  in  the  same 
century  with  himself.  But  men  were  earnest  to  serve  and  wo 
men  to  venerate  him.  Schindler,  as  well  as  others,  devoted 
many  of  the  best  years  of  life  to  him.  A  beautiful  trait  of  affec 
tion  is  mentioned  of  the  Countess  Marie  Erdody,  a  friend  dear  to 
Beethoven,  who,  in  the  park  which  surrounds  her  Hungarian  pal 
ace,  erected  a  temple  which  she  dedicated  to  him. 

Beethoven  had  two  brothers.  The  one,  Johann,  seems  to  have 
been  rather  stupid  and  selfish  than  actively  bad.  The  character 
of  his  mind  is  best  shown  by  his  saying  to  the  great  master, 
"  you  will  never  succeed  as  well  as  I  have."  We  have  all,  prob- 
bably,  in  memory  instances  where  the  reproving  angel  of  the 
family,  the  one  whose  thinking  mind,  grace,  and  purity,  may  pos 
sibly  atone  for  the  worthless  lives  of  all  the  rest,  is  spoken  of  as 
the  unsuccessful  member,  because  he  has  not  laid  up  treasures 
there  where  moth  or  rust  do  corrupt,  and  ever  as  we  hear  such  re 
marks,  we  are  tempted  to  answer  by  asking,  "  what  is  the  news 
from  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  ?"  But  the  farce  of  Beethoven's  not 


96  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

succeeding  is  somewhat  broad,  even  in  a  world  where  many  such 
sayings  echo  through  the  streets.  At  another  time  Johann,  hav 
ing  become  proprietor  of  a  little  estate,  sent  into  Beethoven's 
lodging  a  new  year  card  on  which  was  written  Johann  van  Bee 
thoven  Gutsbesitzer,  (possessor  of  an  estate,)  to  which  the  Master 
returned  one  inscribed  Ludwig  van  Beethoven  Hirnbesitzer, 
(possessor  of  a  brain.)  This  Gutsbesitzer  refused  his  great 
brother  a  trifling  aid  in  his  last  illness,  applied  for  by  the  friends 
who  had  constituted  themselves  his  attendants,  and  showed  to 
wards  him  systematic  selfishness  and  vulgarity  of  feeling.  Carl, 
the  other  brother,  under  the  mask  of  affectionate  attention,  plun 
dered  him  both  of  his  gains  and  the  splendid  presents  often  made 
him,  and  kept  away  by  misrepresentations  and  falsehood  all  those 
who  would  have  sincerely  served  him.  This  was  the  easier,  in 
that  the  usual  unfortunate  effect  of  deafness  of  producing  distrust 
was  increased  in  Beethoven's  case  by  signal  instances  of  treach 
ery,  shown  towards  him  in  the  first  years  of  incapacity  to  man 
age  his  affairs  as  he  had  done  before  his  malady.  This  sad  dis 
trust  poisoned  the  rest  of  his  life ;  but  it  was  his  only  unworthi- 
ness ;  let  us  not  dwell  upon  it.  This  brother,  Carl,  was  Beetho 
ven's  evil  genius,  and  his  malignant  influence  did  not  cease  with 
his  life.  He  bequeathed  to  his  brother  the  care  of  an  only  son, 
and  Beethoven  assumed  the  guardianship  with  that  high  feeling 
of  the  duties  it  involved,  to  be  expected  from  one  of  his  severe  and 
pure  temper.  The  first  step  he  was  obliged  to  take  was  to  with 
draw  the  boy  from  the  society  and  care  of  his  mother,  an  un 
worthy  woman,  under  whose  influence  no  good  could  be  hoped 
from  anything  done  for  him.  The  law-suit,  instituted  for  this 
purpose,  which  lasted  several  years,  was  very  injurious  to  Bee 
thoven's  health,  and  effectually  impeded  the  operations  of  his  po 
etic  power.  For  he  was  one  "  who  so  abhorred  vice  and  mean 
ness  that  he  could  not  bear  to  hear  them  spoken  of,  much  less  suf 
fer  them  near  him ;  yet  now  was  obliged  to  think  of  them,  nay, 


LIVES   OF  THE   GREAT   COMPOSERS.  97 


carefully  to  collect  evidence  in  proof  of  their  existence,  and  that 
in  the  person  of  a  near  connexion."  This  quite  poisoned  the  at 
mosphere  of  his  ideal  world,  and  destroyed  for  the  time  all  crea 
tive  glow.  On  account  of  the  van  prefixed  to  his  name,  the  cause 
was,  at  first,  brought  before  the  tribunal  of  nobility.  They  called 
on  Beethoven  to  show  them  his  credentials  of  noble  birth. 
"  Here !"  he  replied,  putting  his  hand  to  head  and  heart.  But 
as  these  nobles  mostly  derived  their  titles  from  the  head  and  heart 
of  some  remote  ancestor,  they  would  not  recognize  this  new  peer 
age,  and  Beethoven,  with  indignant  surprise,  found  himself  re 
ferred  to  the  tribunal  of  the  common  burghers. 

The  lawsuit  was  spun  out  by  the  obstinate  resistance  of  his 
sister-in-law  for  several  years,  and  when  Beethoven  at  last  ob 
tained  possession  of  the  child,  the  seeds  of  vice  were  already 
sown  in  his  breast.  An  inferior  man  would  have  been  more 
likely  to  eradicate  them  than  Beethoven,  because  a  kindred  con 
sciousness  might  have  made  him  patient.  But  the  stern  Roman 
spirit  of  Beethoven  could  not  demand  less  than  virtue,  less  than 
excellence,  from  the  object  of  his  care.  For  the  youth's  sake  he 
made  innumerable  sacrifices,  toiled  for  him  as  he  would  not  for 
himself,  was  lavish  of  all  that  could  conduce  to  his  true  good, 
but  imperiously  demanded  from  him  truth,  honour,  purity  and  as 
piration.  No  tragedy  is  deeper  than  the  perusal  of  his  letters  to 
the  young  man,  so  brief  and  so  significant,  so  stern  and  so  tender. 
The  joy  and  love  at  every  sign  of  goodness,  the  profound  indig 
nation  at  failure  and  falsehood,  the  power  of  forgiving  but  not  of 
excusing,  the  sentiment  of  the  true  value  of  life,  so  rocky  calm, 
that  with  all  its  height  it  never  seems  exalted,  make  these  letters 
a  biblical  chapter  in  the  protest  of  modern  days  against  the  back- 
slidings  of  the  multitude.  The  lover  of  man,  the  despiser  of 
men,  he  who  writes,  "  Recommend  to  your  children  virtue  ;  that 
alone  can  make  happy,  not  gold ;  I  speak  from  experience"  is 
fully  painted  in.  these  letters. 

PART  n.  5 


98  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

In  a  lately  published  novel,  "  Night  and  Morning,"  Bulwer  has 
well  depicted  the  way  in  which  a  strong  character  overshoots  its 
mark  in  the  care  of  a  weak  one.  The  belief  of  Philip  that  his 
weaker  brother  will  abide  by  a  conviction  or  a  promise,  with  the 
same  steadfastness  that  he  himself  could  ;  the  unfavourable  ac 
tion  of  his  disinterested  sacrifices  on  the  character  of  his  charge, 
and  the  impossibility  that  the  soft,  selfish  child  should  sympathize 
with  the  conflicts  or  decisions  of  the  strong  and  noble  mind  ;  the 
undue  rapidity  with  which  Philip  draws  inferences,  false  to  the 
subject  because  too  large  for  it ;  all  this  tragedy  of  common  life 
is  represented  with  Rembrandt  power  of  shadow  in  the  history  of 
Beethoven  and  his  nephew.  The  ingratitude  of  the  youth  is  un 
surpassed,  and  the  nature  it  wronged  was  one  of  the  deepest  ca 
pacity  for  suffering  from  the  discovery  of  such  baseness.  Many 
years  toiled  on  the  sad  drama  ;  its  catastrophe  was  the  death  of 
this  great  master,  caused  by  the  child  of  his  love  neglecting  to 
call  a  physician,  because  he  wanted  to  play  at  billiards. 

His  love  was  unworthy ;  his  adopted  child  unworthy ;  his 
brothers  unworthy.  Yet  though  his  misfortunes  in  these  respects 
seem  singular,  they  sprang  from  no  chance.  Here,  as  elsewhere, 
"  mind  and  destiny  are  two  names  for  one  idea."  His  colossal 
step  terrified  those  around  him ;  they  wished  him  away  from  the 
earth,  lest  he  should  trample  down  their  mud-hovels ;  they  bound 
him  in  confiding  sleep,  or,  Judas-like,  betrayed  with  a  base  kiss 
of  fealty.  His  genius  excited  no  respect  in  narrow  minds  ;  his 
entire  want  of  discretion  in  the  economy  of  life  left  him,  they 
thought,  their  lawful  prey.  Yet  across  the  dark  picture  shines  a 
gleam  of  almost  unparalleled  lustre,  for  "  she,  Art,  she  held 
him  up." 

I  will  not  give  various  instances  of  failure  in  promises  from 
the  rich  and  noble,  piracy  from  publishers,  nor  even  some  details 
of  his  domestic  plagues,  in  which  he  displays  a  breadth  of  hu 
mour,  and  stately  savage  sarcasm,  refreshing  in  their  place.  But 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  99 

I  will  not  give  any  of  these,  nor  any  of  his  letters,  because  the 
limits  forbid  to  give  them  all,  and  they  require  light  from  one  an 
other.  In  such  an  account  as  the  present,  a  mere  sketch  is  all 
that  can  be  attempted. 

A  few  passages  will  speak  for  themselves.  Goethe  neglected 
to  lend  his  aid  to  the  artist  for  whom  he  had  expressed  such  ad 
miration,  at  a  time  when  he  might  have  done  so  without  any  in. 
convenience.  Perhaps  Beethoven's  letter  (quoted  No.  V.  of  the 
Dial,  Essay  on  Goethe)  may  furnish  an  explanation  of  this.  Che- 
rubini  omitted  to  answer  Beethoven's  affectionate  and  magnani 
mous  letter,  though  he  complied  with  the  request  it  contained. 
But  li  the  good  Bettina"  was  faithful  to  her  professions,  and  of  es 
sential  use  to  Beethoven,  by  interesting  her  family  in  the  conduct 
of  his  affairs. 

He  could  not,  for  any  purpose,  accommodate  himself  to  courts, 
or  recognize  their  claims  to  homage.  Two  or  three  orders  given 
him  for  works,  which  might  have  secured  him  the  regard  of  the 
imperial  family,  he  could  not  obey.  Whenever  he  attempted  to 
compose  them,  he  found  that  the  degree  of  restriction  put  upon 
him  by  the  Emperor's  taste  hampered  him  too  much.  The  one 
he  did  compose  for  such  a  purpose,  the  "  Glorreiche  Augenblick," 
Schindler  speaks  of  as  one  of  the  least  excellent  of  his  works. 

He  could  not  bear  to  give  lessons  to  the  Archduke  Rudolph, 
both  because  he  detested  giving  regular  lessons  at  all,  and  be 
cause  he  could  not  accommodate  himself  to  the  ceremonies  of  a 
court.  Indeed  it  is  evident  enough  from  a  letter  of  the  Arch 
duke's,  quoted  by  Schindler  as  showing  most  condescending  re 
gard,  how  unfit  it  was  for  the  lion-king  to  dance  in  gilded  chains 
amid  these  mummeries. 

Individuals  in  that  princely  class  he  admired,  and  could  be  just 
to,  for  his  democracy  was  very  unlike  that  fierce  vulgar  radical 
ism  which  assumes  that  the  rich  and  great  must  be  bad.  His  was 
only  vindication  of  the  rights  of  man  j  he  could  see  merij  if 


100  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

seated  on  a  throne,  as  clearly  as  if  at  a  cobbler's  stall.  The 
Archduke  Karl,  to  whom  Korner  dedicated  his  heroic  muse,  was 
the  object  of  his  admiration  also.  The  Empress  of  Russia,  too, 
he  admired. 

"  Whoever  wished  to  learn  of  him  was  obliged  to  follow  his 
steps  everywhere,  for  to  teach,  or  say  anything,  at  an  appointed 
time  was  to  him  impossible.  Also  he  would  stop  immediately,  if 
he  found  his  companion  not  sufficiently  versed  in  the  matter  to 
keep  step  with  him."  He  could  not  harangue  ;  he  must  always 
be  drawn  out. 

Amid  all  the  miseries  of  his  housekeeping  or  other  disturb 
ances,  (and  here,  did  space  permit,  I  should  like  to  quote  his  hu 
mourous  notice  of  his  "  four  bad  days,"  when  he  was  almost 
starved,)  he  had  recourse  to  his  art.  "  He  would  be  fretted  a  lit 
tle  while  ;  then  snatch  up  the  score  and  write  l  noten  im  nothen,' 
as  he  was  wont  to  call  them,  and  forget  the  plague." 

When  quite  out  of  health  and  spirits  he  restored  himself  by 
the  composition  of  a  grand  mass.  This  "  great,  solemn  mass," 
as  he  calls  it  in  his  letter  to  Cherubini,  was  offered  to  the  different 
courts  of  Europe  for  fifty  ducats.  The  Prussian  ambassador  in 
a  diplomatic  letter  attempted  to  get  it  for  an  order  and  ribbon. 
Beethoven  merely  wrote  in  reply,  "fifty  ducats."  He  indeed 
was  as  disdainful  of  gold  chains  and  orders  as  Bach  was  indiffer 
ent  to  them. 

Although  thus  haughty,  so  much  so  that  he  would  never  re 
ceive  a  visit  from  Rossini,  because,  though  he  admitted  that  the 
Italian  had  genius,  he  thought  he  had  not  cultivated  it  with 
that  devout  severity  proper  to  the  artist,  and  was,  consequently, 
corrupting  the  public  taste,  he  was  not  only  generous  in  his  joy 
at  any  exhibition  of  the  true  spirit  from  others,  but  tenderly 
grateful  for  intelligent  sympathy  with  himself,  as  is  shown  in  the 
following  beautiful  narratives. 


LIVES   OF   THE   GREAT   COMPOSERS.  101 

'*  Countess  S.  brought  him  on  her  return  from ,  German  words  by 

Herr  Scholz,  written  for  his  first  mass.  He  opened  the  paper  as  we  were 
seated  together  at  the  table.  When  he  came  to  the  '  Qui  tollis,'  tears 
streamed  from  his  eyes,  and  he  was  obliged  to  stop,  so  deeply  was  he 
moved  by  the  inexpressibly  beautiful  words.  He  cried,  'Ja  !  so  habe  ich 
gefuhlt,  als  ich  dieses  schrieb,'  '  yes,  this  was  what  I  felt  when  I  wrote  it.' 
It  was  the  first  and  last  time  I  ever  saw  him  in  tears." 

They  were  such  tears  as  might  have  been  shed  on  the  jubilee 
of  what  he  loved  so  much,  Schiller's  Ode  to  Joy. 

"  Be  welcome,  millions, 
This  embrace  for  the  whole  world." 

Happy  the  man,  who  gave  the  bliss  to  Beethoven  of  feeling  his 
thought  not  only  recognised,  but  understood.  Years  of  undis- 
cerning  censure,  and  scarcely  less  undiscerning  homage,  are  ob 
literated  by  the  one  true  vibration  from  the  heart  of  a  fellow. man. 
I'hen  the  genius  is  at  home  on  earth,  when  another  soul  knows 
not  only  what  he  writes,  but  what  he  felt  when  he  wrote  it. 
"  The  music  is  not  the  lyre  nor  the  hand  which  plays  upon  it, 
but  when  the  two  meet,  that  arises  which  is  neither,  but  gives 
each  its  place." 

A  pleasure  almost  as  deep  was  given  him  on  this  occasion. 
Rossini  had  conquered  the  German  world  also ;  the  public  had 
almost  forgotten  Beethoven.  A  band  of  friends,  in  whose  hearts 
the  care  for  his  glory  and  for  the  high,  severe  culture  of  art  was 
still  living,  wrote  him  a  noble  letter,  in  which  they  entreated  him 
to  give  to  the  public  one  of  his  late  works,  and,  by  such  a  musi 
cal  festival,  eclipse  at  once  these  superficial  entertainments.  The 
spirit  of  this  letter  is  thoughtful,  tender,  and  shows  so  clearly  the 
German  feeling  as  to  the  worship  of  the  beautiful,  that  it  would 
have  been  well  to  translate  it,  but  that  it  is  too  long.  It  should 
be  a  remembrancer  of  pride  and  happiness  to  those  who  signed 
their  names  to  it.  Schindler  knew  when  it  was  to  be  sent,  and 
after  Beethoven  had  time  to  read  it,  he  went  to  him. 


102  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

"  I  found  Beethoven  with  the  memorial  in  his  hand.  With  an  air  of 
unwonted  serenity,  he  reached  it  to  me,  placing  himself  at  the  window  to 
gaze  at  the  clouds  drawing  past.  His  inly  deep  emotion  could  not  escape 
my  eye.  After  I  had  read  the  paper  I  laid  it  aside,  and  waited  in  silence 
for  him  to  begin  the  conversation.  After  a  long  pause,  during  which  his 
looks  constantly  followed  the  clouds,  he  turned  round,  and  said,  in  an  ele 
vated  tone  that  betrayed  his  deep  emotion,  *  Es  ist  doch  recht  schon.  Es 
freut  mich.'  *  It  is  indeed  right  fair.  It  rejoices  me.'  I  assented  by  a 
motion  of  the  head.  He  then  said,  *  Let  us  go  into  the  free  air.'  When 
we  were  out  he  spoke  only  in  monosyllables,  but  the  spark  of  desire  to 
comply  with  their  requests  glimmered  visibly  in  him." 

This  musical  festival  at  last  took  place  after  many  difficulties, 
caused  by  Beethoven's  obstinacy  in  arranging  all  the  circum 
stances  in  his  own  way.  He  could  never  be  brought  to  make 
allowance  anywhere  for  ignorance  or  incapacity.  So  it  must  be 
or  no  how!  He  could  never  be  induced  to  alter  his  music  on 
account  of  the  incapacity  of  the  performers,  (the  best,  too,  on  that 
occasion,  anywhere  to  be  had,)  for  going  through  certain  parts. 
So  that  they  were  at  last  obliged  to  alter  parts  in  their  own  fashion, 
which  was  always  a  great  injury  to  the  final  effect  of  his  works. 
They  were  at  this  time  unwearied  in  their  efforts  to  please  him, 
though  Sontag  playfully  told  him  he  was  "  a  very  tyrant  to  the 
singing  organs." 

This  festival  afforded  him  a  complete  triumph.  The  audience 
applauded  and  applauded,  till,  at  one  time,  when  the  acclama 
tions  rose  to  their  height,  Sontag  perceiving  that  Beethoven  did 
not  hear,  as  his  face  was  turned  from  the  house,  called  his  atten 
tion.  The  audience  then,  as  for  the  first  time  realizing  the  extent 
of  his  misfortune,  melted  into  tears,  then  all  united  in  a  still 
more  rapturous  expression  of  homage.  For  once  at  least  the 
man  excited  the  tenderness,  the  artist  the  enthusiasm  he  deserved. 

His  country  again  forgot  one  who  never  could  nor  would  call 
attention  to  himself;  she  forgot  in  the  day  him  for  whom  she  in 
the  age  cherishes  an  immortal  reverence,  and  the  London  Phil- 


LIVES   OF   THE   GREAT  COMPOSERS.  103 

harmonic  Society  had  the  honour  of  ministering  to  the  necessities 
of  his  last  illness.  The  generous  eagerness  with  which  they 
sent  all  that  his  friendly  attendants  asked,  and  offered  more  when 
ever  called  for,  was  most  grateful  to  Beethoven's  heart,  which 
had  in  those  last  days  been  frozen  by  such  ingratitude.  It  roused 
his  sinking  life  to  one  last  leap  of  flame ;  his  latest  days  were 
passed  in  revolving  a  great  work  which  he  wished  to  compose  for 
the  society,  and  which  those  about  him  thought  would,  if  fin 
ished,  have  surpassed  all  he  had  done  before. 

No  doubt,  if  his  situation  had  been  known  in  Germany,  his 
country  would  have  claimed  a  similar  feeling  from  him.  For  she 
was  not  to  him  a  step-dame  ;  and,  though  in  his  last  days  taken 
up  with  newer  wonders,  would  not,  had  his  name  been  spoken, 
have  failed  to  listen  and  to  answer. 

Yet  a  few  more  interesting  passages.  He  rose  before  daybreak 
bothln  winter  and  summer,  and  worked  till  two  or  three  o'clock, 
rarely  after.  He  would  never  correct,  to  him  the  hardest  task, 
as,  like  all  great  geniuses,  he  was  indefatigable  in  the  use  of  the 
file,  in  the  evening.  Often  in  the  midst  of  his  work  he  would 
run  out  into  the  free  air  for  half  an  hour  or  more,  and  return 
laden  with  new  thoughts.  When  he  felt  this  impulse  he  paid  no 
regard  to  the  weather. 

Plato  and  Shakspeare  were  his  favourite  authors ;  especially 
he  was  fond  of  reading  Plato's  Republic.  He  read  the  Greek 
and  Roman  classics  much,  but  in  translations,  for  his  education, 
out  of  his  art,  was  limited.  He  also  went  almost  daily  to  coffee 
houses,  where  he  read  the  newspapers,  going  in  and  out  by  the  back 
door.  If  he  found  he  excited  observation,  he  changed  his  haunt. 

*'  He  tore  without  ceremony  a  composition  submitted  to  him  by  the 
great  Hummel,  which  he  thought  bad.  Moscheles,  dreading  a  similar 
fate  for  one  of  his  which  was  to  pass  under  his  criticism,  wrote  at  the 
bottom  of  the  last  page,  '  Finis.  With  the  help  of  God.'  Beethoven 
wrote  beneath,  «  Man,  help  thyself.'  " 


104  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

Obviously  a  new  edition  of  Hercules  and  the  Wagoner. 

"  He  was  the  most  open  of  men,  and  told  unhesitatingly  all  he  thought, 
unless  the  subject  were  art  and  artists.  On  these  subjects  he  was  often  in 
accessible,  and  put  off  the  inquirer  with  wit  or  satire."  "  On  two  subjects 
he  would  never  talk,  thorough  bass  and  religion.  He  said  they  were  both 
things  complete  within  themselves,  (in  sich  abgeschlosserie  dinge,)  about 
which  men  should  dispute  no  farther." 

"  As  to  the  productions  of  his  genius,  let  not  a  man  or  a  nation,  if  yet 
in  an  immature  stage,  seek  to  know  them.  They  require  a  certain  degree 
of  ripeness  in  the  inner  man  to  be  understood. 

"  From  the  depth  of  the  mind  arisen,  she,  (Poesie,)  is  only  to  the  depth 
of  the  mind  either  useful  or  intelligible." 

I  cannot  conclude  more  forcibly  than  by  quoting  Beethoven's 
favourite  maxim.  It  expresses  what  his  life  was,  and  what 
the  life  must  be  of  those  who  would  become  worthy  to  do  him 
honour. 

"  The  barriers  are  not  yet  erected  which  can  say  to  aspiring 
talent  and  industry,  thus  far  and  no  farther." 

Beethoven  is  the  only  one  of  these  five  artists  whose  life  can 
be  called  unfortunate.  They  all  found  early  the  means  to  unfold 
their  powers,  and  a  theatre  on  which  to  display  them.  But  Bee 
thoven  was,  through  a  great  part  of  his  public  career,  deprived 
of  the  satisfaction  of  guiding  or  enjoying  the  representation  of  his 
thoughts.  He  was  like  a  painter  who  could  never  see  his  pic 
tures  after  they  are  finished.  Probably,  if  he  could  himself  have 
directed  the  orchestra,  he  would  have  been  more  pliable  in  making 
corrections  with  an  eye  to  effect.  Goethe  says  that  no  one  can 
write  a  successful  drama  without  familiarity  with  the  stage,  so 
as  to  know  what  can  be  expressed,  what  must  be  merely  indi 
cated.  But  in  Beethoven's  situation,  there  was  not  this  reaction, 
so  that  he  clung  more  perseveringly  to  the  details  of  his  work 
than  great  geniuses  do,  who  live  in  more  immediate  contact  with 
the  outward  world.  Such  an  one  will,  indeed,  always  answer 
like  Mozart  to  an  ignorant  criticism,  "  There  are  just  as  many 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  105 

notes  as  there  should  be."  But  a  habit  of  intercourse  with  the 
minds  of  men  gives  an  instinctive  tact  as  to  meeting  them,  and 
Michel  Angelo,  about  to  build  St.  Peter's,  takes  into  considera 
tion,  not  only  his  own  idea  of  a  cathedral,  but  means,  time,  space, 
and  prospects. 

But  the  misfortune,  which  fettered  the  outward  energies,  deep 
ened  the  thought  of  Beethoven.  He  travelled  inward,  downward, 
till  downward  was  shown  to  be  the  same  as  upward,  for  the  centre 
was  passed. 

Like  all  princes,  he  made  many  ingrates,  and  his  powerful 
lion  nature,  was  that  most  capable  of  suffering  from  the  amaze 
ment  of  witnessing  baseness.  But  the  love,  the  pride,  the  faith, 
which  survive  such  pangs  are  those  which  make  our  stair  to  hea 
ven.  Beethoven  was  not  only  a  poet,  but  a  victorious  poet,  for 
having  drunk  to  its  dregs  the  cup  of  bitterness,  the  fount  of 
inward  nobleness  remained  undefiled.  Unbeloved,  he  could 
love  ;  deceived  in  other  men,  he  yet  knew  himself  too  well  to 
despise  human  nature  ;  dying  from  ingratitude,  he  could  still  be 
grateful. 

Schindler  thinks  his  genius  would  have  been  far  more  produc 
tive,  if  he  had  had  a  tolerably  happy  home,  if  instead  of  the  cold 
discomfort  that  surrounded  him,  he  had  been  blessed,  like  Mozart, 
with  a  gentle  wife,  who  would  have  made  him  a  sanctuary  in  her 
unwearied  love.  It  is,  indeed,  inexpressibly  affecting  to  find  the 
"  vehement  nature,"  even  in  his  thirty-first  year,  writing  thus  ; 
45  At  my  age  one  sighs  for  an  equality,  a  harmony  of  outward 
existence,"  and  to  know  that  he  never  attained  it.  But  the  lofty 
ideal  of  the  happiness  which  his  life  could  not  attain,  shone  forth 
not  the  less  powerfully  from  his  genius.  The  love  of  his  choice 
was  not  "  firm  as  the  fortress  of  heaven,"  but  his  heart  remained 
the  gate  to  that  fortress.  During  all  his  latter  years,  he  never 
complained,  nor  did  Schindler  ever  hear  him  advert  to  past  sor 
rows,  or  the  lost  objects  of  affection.  Perhaps  we  are  best  con- 

5* 


106  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

tented  that  earth  should  not  have  offered  him  a  home ;  where  is 
the  woman  who  would  have  corresponded  with  what  we  wish 
from  his  love  ?  Where  is  the  lot  in  which  he  could  have  re 
posed  with  all  that  grandeur  of  aspect  in  which  he  now  appears 
to  us  1  Where  Jupiter,  the  lustrous,  lordeth,  there  may  be  a 
home  for  thee,  Beethoven. 

We  will  not  shrink  from  the  dark  clouds  which  became  to  his 
overflowing  light  cinctures  of  pearl  and  opal  ;  we  will  not,  even 
by  a  wish,  seek  to  amend  the  destiny  through  which  a  divine 
thought  glows  so  clearly.  Were  there  no  (Edipuses  there  would 
be  no  Antigones. 

Under  no  other  circumstances  could  Beethoven  have  ministered 
to  his  fellows  in  the  way  he  himself  indicates. 

"  The  unhappy  man,  let  him  be  comforted  by  finding  one  of 
his  race  who  in  defiance  of  all  hinderances  of  nature,  has  done 
all  possible  to  him  to  be  received  in  the  rank  of  worthy  artists 
and  men." 

In  three  respects  these  artists,  all  true  artists,  resemble  one 
another.  Clear  decision.  The  intuitive  faculty  speaks  clear  in 
those  devoted  to  the  worship  of  Beauty.  They  are  not  subject 
to  mental  conflict,  they  ask  not  counsel  of  experience.  They 
take  what  they  want  as  simply  as  the  bird  goes  in  search  of  its 
proper  food,  so  soon  as  its  wings  are  grown. 

Like  nature  they  love  to  work  for  its  own  sake.  The  philoso 
pher  is  ever  seeking  the  thought  through  the  symbol,  but  the  ar 
tist  is  happy  at  the  implication  of  the  thought  in  his  work.  He 
does  not  reason  about  "  religion  or  thorough  bass."  His  answer 
is  Haydn's,  "  I  thought  it  best  so."  From  each  achievement 
grows  up  a  still  higher  ideal,  and  when  his  work  is  finished,  it  is 
nothing  to  the  artist  who  has  made  of  it  the  step  by  which  he 
ascended,  but  while  he  was  engaged  in  it,  it  was  all  to  him,  and 
filled  his  soul  with  a  parental  joy. 

They  do  not  criticise,  but  affirm.     They  have  no  need  to  deny 


LIVES  OF  THE  GREAT  COMPOSERS.  107' 

aught,  much  less  one  another.  All  excellence  to  them  was  ge 
nial  ;  imperfection  only  left  room  for  new  creative  power  to  dis 
play  itself.  An  everlasting  yes  breathes  from  the  life,  from  the 
work  of  the  artist.  Nature  echoes  it,  and  leaves  to  society  the 
work  of  saying  no,  if  it  will.  But  it  will  not,  except  for  the  mo 
ment.  It  weans  itself  for  the  moment,  and  turns  pettishly  away 
from  genius,  but  soon  stumbling,  groping,  and  lonely,  cries  aloud 
for  its  nurse.  The  age  cries  now,  and  what  an  answer  is  pro 
phesied  by  such  harbinger  stars  as  these  at  which  we  have  been 
gazing.  We  will  engrave  their  names  on  the  breastplate,  and 
wear  them  as  a  talisman  of  hope. 


A  RECORD  OF  IMPRESSIONS 

PRODUCED  BY  THE  EXHIBITION  OF  MR.  ALLSTON's  PICTURES  IN  THE 
SUMMER  OF   1839. 


THIS  is  a  record  of  impressions.  It  does  not  aspire  to  the  dig 
nity  of  criticism.  The  writer  is  conscious  of  an  eye  and  taste, 
not  sufficiently  exercised  by  study  of  the  best  works  of  art, 
to  take  the  measure  of  one  who  has  a  claim  to  be  surveyed 
from  the  same  platform.  But,  surprised  at  finding  that  an  exhi 
bition,  intended  to  promote  thought  and  form  the  tastes  of  our 
public,  has  called  forth  no  expression*  of  what  it  was  to  so  many, 
who  almost  daily  visited  it ;  and  believing  that  comparison  and 
discussion  of  the  impressions  of  individuals  is  the  best  means  to 
ascertain  the  sum  of  the  whole,  and  raise  the  standard  of  taste,  I 
venture  to  offer  what,  if  not  true  in  itself,  is  at  least  true  to  the 
mind  of  one  observer,  and  may  lead  others  to  reveal  more  valua 
ble  experiences. 

Whether  the  arts  can  ever  be  at  home  among  us  ;  whether  the 
desire  now  manifested  to  cultivate  them  be  not  merely  one  of  our 
modes  of  imitating  older  nations  ;  or  whether  it  springs  from  a 
need  of  balancing  the  bustle  and  care  of  daily  life  by  the  unfold 
ing  of  our  calmer  and  higher  nature,  it  is  at  present  difficult  to 
decide.  If  the  latter,  it  is  not  by  unthinking  repetition  of  the 
technics  of  foreign  connoisseurs,  or  by  a  servile  reliance  on  the 
judgment  of  those,  who  assume  to  have  been  formed  by  a  few 

*  Since  the  above  was  written,  we  see  an  article  on  the  Exhibition  in  the 
North  American  Review  for  April,  1840. 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON.  109 

hasty  visits  to  the  galleries  of  Europe,  that  we  shall  effect  an  ob 
ject  so  desirable,  but  by  a  faithful  recognition  of  the  feelings 
naturally  excited  by  works  of  art,  not  indeed  flippant,  as  if  our 
raw,  uncultivated  nature  was  at  once  competent  to  appreciate 
those  finer  manifestations  of  nature,  which  slow  growths  of  ages 
and  peculiar  aspects  of  society  have  occasionally  brought  out,  to 
testify  to  us  what  we  may  and  should  be.  We  know  it  is  not  so; 
we  know  that  if  such  works  are  to  be  assimilated  at  all  by  those 
who  are  not  under  the  influences  that  produced  them,  it  must  be 
by  gradually  educating  us  to  their  own  level.  But  it  is  not  blind 
faith  that  will  educate  us,  that  will  open  the  depths  and  clear  the 
eye  of  the  mind,  but  an  examination  which  cannot  be  too  close, 
if  made  in  the  spirit  of  reverence  and  love. 

It  was  as  an  essay  in  this  kind  that  the  following  pages  were 
written.  They  are  pages  of  a  journal,  and  their  form  has  not  been 
altered,  lest  any  attempt  at  a  more  fair  and  full  statement  should 
destroy  that  freshness  and  truth  of  feeling,  which  is  the  chief 
merit  of  such. 

July,  1839. 

On  the  closing  of  the  Allston  exhibition,  where  I  have  spent  so 
many  hours,  I  find  myself  less  a  gainer  than  I  had  expected,  and 
feel  that  it  is  time  to  look  into  the  matter  a  little,  with  such  a 
torch  or  penny  rush  candle  as  I  can  command. 

I  have  seen  most  of  these  pictures  often  before ;  the  Beatrice 
and  Valentine  when  only  sixteen.  The  effect  they  produced  upon 
me  was  so  great,  that  I  suppose  it  was  not  possible  for  me  to  avoid 
expecting  too  large  a  benefit  from  the  artist. 

The  calm  and  meditative  cast  of  these  pictures,  the  ideal 
beauty  that  shone  through  rather  than  in  them,  and  the  harmony 
of  colouring  were  as  unlike  anything  else  I  saw,  as  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  to  Cooper's  novels.  I  seemed  to  recognise  in  painting 
that  self-possessed  elegance,  that  transparent  depth,  which  I  most 
admire  in  literature ;  I  thought  with  delight  that  such  a  man  as 


110  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

this  had  been  able  to  grow  up  in  our  bustling,  reasonable  com 
munity,  that  he  had  kept  his  foot  upon  the  ground,  yet  never  lost 
sight  of  the  rose-clouds  of  beauty  floating  above  him.  I  saw,  too, 
that  he  had  not  been  troubled,  but  possessed  his  own  soul  with 
the  blandest  patience ;  and  I  hoped,  I  scarce  knew  what ;  proba 
bly  the  mot  d'enigme  for  which  we  are  all  looking.  How  the 
poetical  mind  can  live  and  work  in  peace  arid  good  faith  !  how 
it  may  unfold  to  its  due  perfection  in  an  un poetical  society  ! 

From  time  to  time  I  have  seen  other  of  these  pictures,  and  they 
have  always  been  to  me  sweet  silvery  music,  rising  by  its  clear 
tone  to  be  heard  above  the  din  of  life  ;  long  forest  glades  glim 
mering  with  golden  light,  longingly  eyed  from  the  window  of 
some  crowded  drawing  room. 

But  now,  seeing  so  many  of  them  together,  I  can  no  longer  be 
content  merely  to  feel,  but  must  judge  these  works.  I  must  try 
to  find  the  centre,  to  measure  the  circumference  j  and  I  fare 
somewhat  as  I  have  done,  when  I  have  seen  in  periodicals  de 
tached  thoughts  by  some  writer,  which  seemed  so  full  of  meaning 
and  suggestion,  that  I  would  treasure  them  up  in  my  memory,  and 
think  about  them,  till  I  had  made  a  picture  of  the  author's  mind, 
which  his  works  when  I  found  them  collected  would  not  justify. 
Yet  the  great  writer  would  go  beyond  my  hope  and  abash  my 
fancy ;  should  not  the  great  painter  do  the  same  ? 

Yet,  probably,  I  am  too  little  aware  of  the  difficulties  the 
artist  encounters,  before  he  can  produce  anything  excellent,  fully 
to  appreciate  the  greatness  he  has  shown.  Here,  as  elsewhere, 
I  suppose  the  first  question  should  be,  What  ought  we  to  expect 
under  the  circumstances  ? 

There  is  no  poetical  ground- work  ready  for  the  artist  in  our 
country  and  time.  Good  deeds  appeal  to  the  understanding. 
Our  religion  is  that  of  the  understanding.  We  have  no  old 
established  faith,  no  hereditary  romance,  no  such  stuff  as  Catholi 
cism,  Chivalry  afforded.  What  is  most  dignified  in  the  Puritanic 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

modes  of  thought  is  not  favourable  to  beauty.     The  habits  of  an 
industrial  community  are  not  propitious  to  delicacy  of  sentiment. 

He,  who  would  paint  human  nature,  must  content  himself  with 
selecting  fine  situations  here  and  there  ;  and  he  must  address 
himself,  not  to  a  public  which  is  not  educated  to  prize  him,  but 
to  the  small  circle  within  the  circle  of  men  of  taste. 

If,  like  Wilkie  or  Newton,  he  paints  direct  from  nature,  only 
selecting  and  condensing,  or  choosing  lights  and  draperies,  I  sup 
pose  he  is  as  well  situated  now  as  he  could  ever  have  been  ;  but 
if,  like  Mr.  Allston,  he  aims  at  the  Ideal,  it  is  by  no  means  the 
same.  He  is  in  danger  of  being  sentimental  and  picturesque, 
rather  than  spiritual  and  noble.  Mr.  Allston  has  not  fallen 
into  these  faults ;  and  if  we  can  complain,  it  is  never  of  blemish 
or  falsity,  but  of  inadequacy.  Always  he  has  a  high  purpose  in 
what  he  does,  never  swerves  from  his  aim,  but  sometimes  fails  to 
reach  it. 

The  Bible,  familiar  to  the  artist's  youth,  has  naturally  fur 
nished  subjects  for  his  most  earnest  efforts.  I  will  speak  of  four 
pictures  on  biblical  subjects,  which  were  in  this  exhibition. 

Restoring  the  dead  man  by  the  touch  of  the  Prophet's  Bones. 
I  should  say  there  was  a  want  of  artist's  judgment  in  the  very 
choice  of  the  subject. 

In  all  the  miracles  where  Christ  and  the  Apostles  act  a  part, 
and  which  have  been  favourite  subjects  with  the  great  painters, 
poetical  beauty  is  at  once  given  to  the  scene  by  the  moral  dignity, 
the  sublime  exertion  of  faith  on  divine  power  in  the  person  of 
the  main  actor.  He  is  the  natural  centre  of  the  picture,  and  the 
emotions  of  all  present  grade  from  and  cluster  round  him.  So 
in  a  martyrdom,  however  revolting  or  oppressive  the  circum 
stances,  there  is  room  in  the  person  of  the  sufferer  for  a  similar 
expression,  a  central  light  which  shall  illuminate  and  dignify  all 
round  it. 

But  a  miracle  effected  by  means  of  a  reliqus,  or  dry  bones, 


112  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

has  the  disagreeable  effect  of  mummery.  In  this  picture  the 
foreground  is  occupied  by  the  body  of  the  patient  in  that  state  of 
deadly  rigidity  and  pallor  so  offensive  to  the  sensual  eye.  The 
mind  mast  reason  the  eye  out  of  an  instinctive  aversion,  and 
force  it  to  its  work, — always  an  undesirable  circumstance. 

In  such  a  picture  as  that  of  the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents, 
painful  as  the  subject  is,  the  beauty  of  forms  in  childhood,  and 
the  sentiment  of  maternal  love,  so  beautiful  even  in  anguish, 
charm  so  much  as  to  counterpoise  the  painful  emotions.  But 
here,  not  only  is  the  main  figure  offensive  to  the  sensual  eye,  thus 
violating  one  principal  condition  of  art ;  it  is  incapable  of  any 
expression  at  such  a  time  beyond  that  of  physical  anguish  during 
the  struggle  of  life  suddenly  found  to  re-demand  its  dominion. 
Neither  can  the  assistants  exhibit  any  emotions  higher  than  those 
of  surprise,  terror,  or,  as  in  the  case  of  the  wife,  an  overwhelm 
ing  anxiety  of  suspense. 

The  grouping  and  colouring  of  this  picture  are  very  good, 
and  the  individual  figures  managed  with  grace  and  discrimina 
tion,  though  without  much  force. 

The  subjects  of  the  other  three  pictures  are  among  the  finest 
possible,  grand  no  less  than  beautiful,  and  of  the  highest  poetical 
interest.  They  present  no  impediment  to  the  manifestation  of 
genius.  Let  us  look  first  at  Jeremiah  in  prison  dictating  to 
Baruch. 

The  strength  and  dignity  of  the  Jew  physique,  and  the  appro 
priateness  of  the  dress,  allowed  fair  play  to  the  painter's  desire 
to  portray  inspiration  manifesting  itself  by  a  suitable  organ.  As 
far  as  the  accessories  and  grouping  of  the  figures  nothing  can  be 
better.  The  form  of  the  prophet  is  brought  out  in  such  noble 
relief,  is  in  such  fine  contrast  to  the  pale  and  feminine  sweet 
ness  of  the  scribe  at  his  feet,  that  for  a  time  you  are  satisfied. 
But  by  and  by  you  begin  to  doubt,  whether  this  picture  is  not 
rather  imposing  than  majestic.  The  dignity  of  the  prophet's  ap- 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON.  113 

pearance  seems  to  lie  rather  in  the  fine  lines  of  the  form  and 
drapery,  than  in  the  expression  of  the  face.  It  was  well  observed 
by  one  who  looked  on  him,  that,  if  the  eyes  were  cast  down,  he 
would  become  an  ordinary  man.  This  is  true,  and  the  expres 
sion  of  the  bard  must  not  depend  on  a  look  or  gesture,  but  beam 
with  mild  electricity  from  every  feature.  Allston's  Jeremiah  is 
not  the  mournfully  indignant  bard,  but  the  robust  and  stately 
Jew,  angry  that  men  will  not  mark  his  word  and  go  his  way. 
But  Baruch  is  admirable  !  His  overwhelmed  yet  willing  submis 
sion,  the  docile  faith  which  turns  him  pale,  and  trembles  almost 
tearful  in  his  eye,  are  given  with  infinite  force  and  beauty.  The 
ooup  d'wil  of  this  picture  is  excellent,  and  it  has  great  merit,  but 
not  the  highest. 

Miriam.  There  is  hardly  a  subject  which,  for  the  combina 
tion  of  the  sublime  with  the  beautiful  could  present  greater  ad 
vantages  than  this.  Yet  this  picture  also,  with  all  its  great  merits, 
fails  to  satisfy  our  highest  requisitions. 

I  could  wish  the  picture  had  been  larger,  and  that  the  angry 
clouds  and  swelling  sea  did  not  need  to  be  looked  for  as  they  do. 
For  the  whole  attention  remains  so  long  fixed  on  the  figure  of 
Miriam,  that  you  cannot  for  some  time  realize  who  she  is.  You 
merely  see  this  bounding  figure,  and  the  accessories  are  so  kept 
under,  that  it  is  difficult  to  have  the  situation  full  in  your  mind, 
and  feel  that  you  see  not  merely  a  Jewish  girl  dancing,  but  the  re 
presentative  of  Jewry  rescued  and  triumphant !  What  a  figure  this 
might  be  !  The  character  of  Jewish  beauty  is  so  noble  and  pro 
found  !  This  maiden  had  been  nurtured  in  a  fair  and  highly 
civilized  country,  in  the  midst  of  wrong  and  scorn  indeed,  but 
beneath  the  shadow  of  sublime  institutions.  In  a  state  of  ab 
ject  bondage,  in  a  catacomb  as  to  this  life,  she  had  embalmed 
her  soul  in  the  memory  of  those  days,  when  God  walked  with 
her  fathers,  and  did  for  their  sakes  such  mighty  works.  Amid 
all  the  pains  and  penances  of  slavery,  the  memory  of  Joseph,  the 


114  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

presence  of  Moses,  exalt  her  soul  to  the  highest  pitch  of  national 
pride.  The  chords  had  of  late  been  strung  to  their  greatest  ten 
sion,  by  the  series  of  prodigies  wrought  in  behalf  of  the  nation  of 
which  her  family  is  now  the  head.  Of  these  the  last  and  grand 
est  had  just  taken  place  before  her  eyes. 

Imagine  the  stately  and  solemn  beauty  with  which  such  nur 
ture  and  such  a  position  might  invest  the  Jewish  Miriam.  Ima 
gine  her  at  the  moment  when  her  soul  would  burst  at  last  the 
shackles  in  which  it  had  learned  to  move  freely  and  proudly, 
when  her  lips  were  unsealed,  and  she  was  permitted  before  her 
brother,  deputy  of  the  Most  High,  and  chief  of  their  assembled 
nation,  to  sing  the  song  of  deliverance.  Realize  this  situation, 
and  oh,  how  far  will  this  beautiful  picture  fall  short  of  your  de 
mands  ! 

The  most  unimaginative  observers  complain  of  a  want  of  depth 
in  the  eye  of  Miriam.  For  myself,  I  make  the  same  complaint, 
as  much  as  I  admire  the  whole  figure.  How  truly  is  she  up 
borne,  what  swelling  joy  and  pride  in  every  line  of  her  form  ! 
And  the  face,  though  inadequate,  is  not  false  to  the  ideal.  Its 
beauty  is  mournful,  and  only  wants  the  heroic  depth,  the  cavern 
ous  flame  of  eye,  which  should  belong  to  such  a  face  in  such  a 
place. 

The  Witch  of  Endor  is  still  more  unsatisfactory.  What  a  tra 
gedy  was  that  of  the  stately  Saul,  ruined  by  his  perversity  of  will, 
despairing,  half  mad,  refusing  to  give  up  the  sceptre  which  he 
feels  must  in  a  short  time  be  wrenched  from  his  hands,  degrading 
himself  to  the  use  of  means  he  himself  had  forbid  as  unlawful 
and  devilish,  seeking  the  friend  and  teacher  of  his  youth  by  means 
he  would  most  of  all  men  disapprove.  The  mournful  significance 
of  the  crisis,  the  stately  aspect  of  Saul  as  celebrated  in  the  his 
tory,  and  the  supernatural  events  which  had  filled  his  days,  gave 
authority  for  investing  him  with  that  sort  of  beauty  and  majesty 
proper  to  archangels  ruined.  What  have  we  here  ?  I  don't 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON.  115 

know  what  is  generally  thought  about  the  introduction  of  a  ghost 
on  canvass,  but  it  is  to  me  as  ludicrous  as  the  introduction  on  the 
stage  of  the  ghost  in  Hamlet  (in  his  night-gown)  as  the  old  play 
book  direction  was.  The  effect  of  such  a  representation  seems 
to  me  unattainable  in  a  picture.  There  cannot  be  due  distance 
and  shadowy  softness. 

Then  what  does  the  picture  mean  to  say  ?  In  the  chronicle, 
the  witch,  surprised  and  affrighted  at  the  apparition,  reproaches  the 
king,  "  Why  hast  thou  deceived  me  ?  for  thou  art  Saul." 

But  here  the  witch  (a  really  fine  figure,  fierce  and  prononce  as 
that  of  a  Norna  should  be)  seems  threatening  the  king,  who  is  in 
an  attitude  of  theatrical  as  well  as  degrading  dismay.  To  me 
this  picture  has  no  distinct  expression,  and  is  wholly  unsatisfac 
tory,  maugre  all  its  excellencies  of  detail. 

In  fine,  the  more  I  have  looked  at  these  pictures,  the  more  I 
have  been  satisfied  that  the  grand  historical  style  did  not  afford 
the  scope  most  proper  to  Mr.  Allston's  genius.  The  Prophets 
and  Sibyls  are  for  the  Michael  Angelos.  The  Beautiful  is  Mr. 
Allston's  dominion.  There  he  rules  as  a  Genius,  but  in  attempts 
such  as  I  have  been  considering,  can  only  show  his  appreciation 
of  the  stern  and  sublime  thoughts  he  wants  force  to  reproduce. 

But  on  his  own  ground  we  can  meet  the  painter  with  almost 
our  first  delight. 

A  certain  bland  delicacy  enfolds  all  these  creations  as  an  at 
mosphere.  Here  is  no  effort,  they  have  floated  across  the 
painter's  heaven  on  the  golden  clouds  of  phantasy. 

These  pictures  (I  speak  here  only  of  figures,  of  the  landscapes 
a  few  words  anon)  are  almost  all  in  repose.  The  most  beautiful 
are  Beatrice,  The  Lady  reading  a  Valentine,  The  Evening 
Hymn,  Rosalie,  The  Italian  Shepherd  Boy,  Edwin,  Lorenzo  and 
Jessica.  The  excellence  of  these  pictures  is  subjective  and  even 
feminine.  They  tell  us  the  painter's  ideal  of  character.  A 
graceful  repose,  with  a  fitness  for  moderate  action.  A  capacity 


116  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

of  emotion,  with  a  habit  of  reverie.  Not  one  of  these  beings  ia 
in  a  state  of  epanchement,  not  one  is,  or  perhaps  could  be,  thrown 
off  its  equipoise.  They  are,  even  the  softest,  characterized  by 
entire  though  unconscious  self-possession. 

While  looking  at  them  would  be  always  coming  up  in  my 
mind  the  line, 

"  The  genius  loci,  feminine  and  fair." 

Grace,  grace  always. 

Mr.  Allston  seems  to  have  an  exquisite  sensibility  to  colour,  and 
a  great  love  for  drapery.  The  last  sometimes  leads  him  to 
direct  our  attention  too  much  to  it,  and  sometimes  the  accessories 
are  made  too  prominent ;  we  look  too  much  at  shawls,  curtains, 
rings,  feathers,  and  carcanets. 

I  will  specify  two  of  these  pictures,  which  seem  to  me  to  indi 
cate  Mr.  Allston's  excellences  as  well  as  any. 

The  Italian  Shepherd  boy  is  seated  in  a  wood.  The  form  is 
almost  nude,  and  the  green  glimmer  of  the  wood  gives  the  flesh 
the  polished  whiteness  of  marble.  He  is  very  beautiful,  this 
boy  ;  and  the  beauty,  as  Mr.  Allston  loves  it  best,  has  not  yet 
unfolded  all  its  leaves.  The  heart  of  the  flower  is  still  a  per 
fumed  secret.  He  sits  as  if  he  could  sit  there  forever,  gracefully 
lost  in  reverie,  steeped,  if  we  may  judge  from  his  mellow  brown 
eye,  in  the  present  loveliness  of  nature,  in  the  dimly  anticipated 
ecstasies  of  love. 

Every  part  of  nature  has  its  peculiar  influence.  On  the  hill 
top  one  is  roused,  in  the  valley  soothed,  beside  the  waterfall  ab 
sorbed.  And  in  the  wood,  who  has  not,  like  this  boy,  walked  as 
far  as  the  excitement  of  exercise  would  carry  him,  and  then, 
with  "  blood  listening  in  his  frame."  and  heart  brightly  awake, 
seated  himself  on  such  a  bank.  At.  first  he  notices  everything, 
the  clouds  doubly  soft,  the  sky  deeper  blue,  as  seen  shimmering 
through  the  leaves,  the  fyttes  of  golden  light  seen  through  the 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON.  117 

long  glades,  the  skimming  of  a  butterfly  ready  to  light  on  some 
starry  wood-flower,  the  nimble  squirrel  peeping  archly  at  him, 
the  flutter  and  wild  notes  of  the  birds,  the  whispers  and  sighs  of 
the  trees, — gradually  he  ceases  to  mark  any  of  these  things,  and 
becomes  lapt  in  the  Elysian  harmony  they  combine  to  form. 
Who  has  ever  felt  this  mood  understands  why  the  observant 
Greek  placed  his  departed  great  ones  in  groves.  While,  during 
this  trance,  he  hears  the  harmonies  of  Nature,  he  seems  to  become 
her  and  she  him  ;  it  is  truly  the  mother  in  the  child,  and  the 
Hamadryads  look  out  with  eyes  of  tender  twilight  approbation 
from  their  beloved  and  loving  trees.  Such  an  hour  lives  for  us 
again  in  this  picture. 

Mr.  Allston  has  been  very  fortunate  in  catching  the  shimmer 
and  glimmer  of  the  woods,  and  tempering  his  greens  and  browns 
to  their  peculiar  light. 

Beatrice.  This  is  spoken  of  as  Dante's  Beatrice,  but  I  should 
think  can  scarcely  have  been  suggested  by  the  Divine  Comedy. 
The  painter  merely  having  in  rnind  how  the  great  Dante  loved  a 
certain  lady  called  Beatrice,  embodied  here  his  own  ideal  of  a 
poet's  love. 

The  Beatrice  of  Dante  was,  no  doubt,  as  pure,  as  gentle,  as 
high-bred,  but  also  possessed  of  much  higher  attributes  than  this 
fair  being. 

How  fair,  indeed,  and  not  unmeet  for  a  poet's  love.  But 
there  lies  in  her  no  germ  of  the  celestial  destiny  of  Dante's 
saint.  What  she  is,  what  she  can  be,  it  needs  no  Dante  to  dis 
cover. 

She  is  not  a  lustrous,  bewitching  beauty,  neither  is  she  a  high 
and  poetic  one.  She  is  not  a  concentrated  perfume,  nor  a  flower, 
nor  a  star  ;  yet  somewhat  has  she  of  every  creature's  best.  She 
has  the  golden  mean,  without  any  touch  of  the  mediocre.  She 
can  venerate  the  higher  and  compassionate  the  lower,  and  do  to 
all  honour  due  with  most  grateful  courtesy  and  nice  tact.  She  is 


118  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

velvet-soft,  her  mild  and  modest  eyes  have  tempered  all  things 
round  her,  till  no  rude  sound  invades  her  sphere ;  yet,  if  need 
were,  she  could  resist  with  as  graceful  composure  as  she  can  fa 
vour  or  bestow. 

No  vehement  emotion  shall  heave  that  bosom,  and  the  tears 
shall  fall  on  those  cheeks  more  like  dew  than  rain.  Yet  are  her 
feelings  delicate,  profound,  her  love  constant  and  tender,  her  re- 
sentment  calm  but  firm. 

Fair  as  a  maid,  fairer  as  a  wife,  fairest  as  a  lady  mother  and 
ruler  of  a  household,  she  were  better  suited  to  a  prince  than  a 
poet.  Even  if  no  prince  could  be  found  worthy  of  her,  I  would 
not  wed  her  to  a  poet,  if  he  lived  in  a  cottage.  For  her  best 
graces  demand  a  splendid  setting  to  give  them  their  due  lustre, 
and  she  should  rather  enhance  than  cause  her  environment. 

There  are  three  pictures  in  the  comic  kind,  which  are  good. 
It  is  genteel  comedy,  not  rich,  easily  taken  in  and  left,  but  hav 
ing  the  lights  and  shades  well  marked.  They  show  a  gentle 
manlike  playfulness.  In  Catharine  and  Petruchio,  the  Gremio  is 
particularly  good,  and  the  tear-distained  Catharine,  whose  head 
shoulder,  knee,  and  foot  seem  to  unite  to  spell  the  word  Pout, 
is  next  best. 

The  Sisters — a  picture  quite  unlike  those  I  have  named — does 
not  please  me  much,  though  I  should  suppose  the  execution  re 
markably  good.  It  is  not  in  repose  nor  in  harmony,  nor  is  it  rich 
in  suggestion,  like  the  others.  It  aims  to  speak,  but  says  little, 
and  is  not  beautiful  enough  to  fill  the  heart  with  its  present  mo 
ment.  To  me  it  makes  a  break  in  the  chain  of  thought  the  other 
pictures  had  woven. 

Scene  from  Gil  Bias — also  unlike  the  other  in  being  perfectly 
objective,  and  telling  all  its  thought  at  once.  It  is  a  fine  paint 
ing. 

Mother  and  Child.  A  lovely  little  picture.  But  there  is  to 
my  taste  an  air  of  got  up  naivete  and  delicacy  in  it.  It  seems 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON.  119 

selected,  arranged  by  "  an  intellectual  effort."  It  did  not  flow 
into  the  artist's  mind  like  the  others.  But  persons  of  better  taste 
than  I  like  it  better  than  I  do  ! 

Jews — full  of  character.  Isaac  is  too  dignified  and  sad  ;  gold 
never  rusted  the  soul  of  the  man  that  owned  that  face. 

The  Landscapes.  At  these  I  look  with  such  unalloyed  delight, 
that  I  have  been  at  moments  tempted  to  wish  that  the  artist  had 
concentrated  his  powers  on  this  department  of  art,  in  so  high  a 
degree  does  he  exhibit  the  attributes  of  the  master  ;  a  power  of 
sympathy,  which  gives  each  landscape  a  perfectly  individual 
character.  Here  the  painter  is  merged  in  his  theme,  and  these 
pictures  affect  us  as  parts  of  nature,  so  absorbed  are  we  in  con 
templating  them,  so  difficult  is  it  to  remember  them  as  pictures. 
How  the  clouds  float !  how  the  trees  live  and  breathe  out  their 
mysterious  souls  in  the  peculiar  attitude  of  every  leaf.  Dear 
companions  of  my  life,  whom  yearly  I  know  better,  yet  into 
whose  heart  I  can  no  more  penetrate  than  see  your  roots,  while 
you  live  and  grow,  I  feel  what  you  have  said  to  this  painter ; 
I  can  in  some  degree  appreciate  the  power  he  has  shown  in  re- 
peating  here  the  gentle  oracle. 

The  soul  of  the  painter  is  in  these  landscapes,  but  not  his  char 
acter.  Is  not  that  the  highest  art  ?  Nature  and  the  soul  com 
bined  ;  the  former  freed  from  slight  crudities  or  blemishes,  the 
latter  from  its  merely  human  aspect. 

These  landscapes  are  too  truly  works  of  art,  their  language  is 
too  direct,  too  lyrically  perfect,  to  be  translated  into  this  of  words, 
without  doing  them  an  injury. 

To  those,  who  confound  praise  with  indiscriminate  eulogium, 
and  who  cannot  understand  the  mind  of  one,  whose  highest  expres 
sion  of  admiration  is  a  close  scrutiny,  perhaps  the  following  lines 
will  convey  a  truer  impression,  than  the  foregoing  remarks,  of 
the  feelings  of  the  writer.  They  were  suggested  by  a  picture 
painted  by  Mr.  Allston  for  a  gentleman  of  Boston,  which  haa 


120  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

never  yet  been  publicly  exhibited.  It  is  of  the  same  class  with 
his  Rosalie  and  Evening  Hymn,  pictures  which  were  not  particu 
larized  in  the  above  record,  because  they  inspired  no  thought 
except  of  their  excelling  beauty,  which  draws  the  heart  into  it 
self. 

These  two  sonnets  may  be  interesting,  as  showing  how  simi 
lar  trains  of  thought  were  opened  in  the  minds  of  two  observers. 

"  To-day  I  have  been  to  see  Mr.  Allston's  new  picture  of  The 
Bride,  and  am  more  convinced  than  ever  of  the  depth  and  value 
of  his  genius,  and  of  how  much  food  for  thought  his  works  con 
tain.  The  face  disappointed  me  at  first  by  its  want  of  beauty. 
Then  I  observed  the  peculiar  expression  of  the  eyes,  and  that  of 
the  lids,  which  tell  such  a  tale,  as  well  as  the  strange  complex 
ion,  all  heightened  by  the  colour  of  the  background,  till  the  im 
pression  became  very  strong.  It  is  the  story  of  the  lamp  of  love, 
lighted,  even  burning  with  full  force  in  a  being  that  cannot  yet 
comprehend  it.  The  character  is  domestic,  far  more  so  than  that 
of  the  ideal  and  suffering  Rosalie,  of  which,  nevertheless,  it  re 
minds  you. 

"  TO  W.  ALLSTON,  ON  SEEING  HIS  <  BRIDE.' 

"  Weary  and  slow  and  faint  with  heavy  toil, 
The  fainting  traveller  pursues  his  way, 
O'er  dry  Arabian  sands  the  long,  long  day, 
Where  at  each  step  floats  up  the  dusty  soil; 
And  when  he  finds  a  green  and  gladsome  isle. 
And  flowing  water  in  that  plain  of  care, 
And  in  the  midst  a  marble  fountain  fair, 
To  tell  that  others  suffered  too  erewhile, 
And  then  appeased  their  thirst,  and  made  this  fount 
To  them  a  sad  remembrance,  but  a  joy 
To  all  who  follow — his  tired  spirits  mount 
At  such  dim-visioned  company — so  I 
Drink  of  thy  marble  source,  and  do  not  count 
Weary  the  way  in  which  thou  hast  gone  by." 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON.  121 

TO  ALLSTON'S  PICTURE,  'THE  BRIDE.' 

Not  long  enough  we  gaze  upon  that  face, 
Not  pure  enough  the  life  with  which  we  live, 
To  be  full  tranced  by  that  softest  grace, 
To  win  all  pearls  those  lucid  depths  can  give ; 
Here  Phantasy  has  borrowed  wings  of  Even, 
And  stolen  Twilight's  latest,  sacred  hues, 
A  Soul  has  visited  the  woman's  heaven, 
Where  palest  lights  a  silver  sheen  diffuse, 
To  see  aright  the  vision  which  he  saw, 
We  must  ascend  as  high  upon  the  stair, 
Which  leads  the  human  thought  to  heavenly  law, 
And  see  the  flower  bloom  in  its  natal  air ; 
Thus  might  we  read  aright  the  lip  and  brow, 
Where  Thought  and  Love  beam  too  subduing  for  our  senses  now. 
PART  II.  6 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE; 

ITS   POSITION    IN    THE    PRESENT   TIME,    AND    PROSPECTS    FOR    THE 
FUTURE. 


SOME  thinkers  may  object  to  this  essay,  that  we  are  about  to 
write  of  that  which  has,  as  yet,  no  existence. 

For  it  does  not  follow  because  many  books  are  written  by  per 
sons  oorn  in  America  that  there  exists  an  American  literature. 
Books  which  imitate  or  represent  the  thoughts  and  life  of 
Europe  do  not  constitute  an  American  literature.  Before  such 
can  exist,  an  original  idea  must  animate  this  nation  and  fresh 
currents  of  life  must  call  into  life  fresh  thoughts  along  its  shores. 

We  have  no  sympathy  with  national  vanity.  We  are  not 
anxious  to  prove  that  there  is  as  yet  much  American  literature. 
Of  those  who  think  and  write  among  us  in  the  methods  and  of  the 
thoughts  of  Europe,  we  are  not  impatient ;  if  their  minds  are  still 
best  adapted  to  such  food  and  such  action.  If  their  books  express 
life  of  mind  and  character  in  graceful  forms,  they  are  good  and 
we  like  them.  We  consider  them  as  colonists  and  useful  school 
masters  to  our  people  in  a  transition  state  ;  which  lasts  rather 
longer  than  is  occupied  in  passing,  bodily,  the  ocean  which 
separates  the  new  from  the  old  world. 

We  have  been  accused  of  an  undue  attachment  to  foreign 
continental  literature,  and,  it  is  true,  that  in  childhood,  we  had 
well  nigh  "  forgotten  our  English,"  while  constantly  reading  in 
other  languages.  Still,  what  we  loved  in  the  literature  of  conti 
nental  Europe  was  the  range  and  force  of  ideal  manifestation  in 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  123 

forms  of  national  and  individual  greatness.  A  model  was  before 
us  in  the  great  Latins  of  simple  masculine  minds  seizing  upon 
life  with  unbroken  power.  The  stamp  both  of  nationality  and 
individuality  was  very  strong  upon  them  ;  their  lives  and  thoughts 
stood  out  in  clear  and  bold  relief.  The  English  character  has  the 
iron  force  of  the  Latins,  but  not  the  frankness  and  expansion. 
Like  their  fruits,  they  need  a  summer  sky  to  give  them  more 
sweetness  and  a  richer  flavour.  This  does  not  apply  to  Shakspeare, 
who  has  all  the  fine  side  of  English  genius,  with  the  rich  col 
ouring,  and  more  fluent  life,  of  the  Catholic  countries.  Other 
poets,  of  England  also,  are  expansive  more  or  less,  and  soar 
freely  to  seek  the  blue  sky,  but  take  it  as  a  whole,  there  is  in 
English  literature,  as  in  English  character,  a  reminiscence  of 
walls  and  ceilings,  a  tendency  to  the  arbitrary  and  conventional 
that  repels  a  mind  trained  in  admiration  of  the  antique  spirit.  It 
is  only  in  later  days  that  we  are  learning  to  prize  the  peculiar 
greatness  which  a  thousand  times  outweighs  this  fault,  and  which 
has  enabled  English  genius  to  go  forth  from  its  insular  position 
and  conquer  such  vast  dominion  in  the  realms  both  of  matter  and 
of  mind. 

Yet  there  is,  often,  between  child  and  parent,  a  reaction  from 
excessive  influence  having  been  exerted,  and  such  an  one  we 
have  experienced,  in  behalf  of  our  country,  against  England. 
We  use  her  language,  and  receive,  in  torrents,  the  influence  of 
her  thought,  yet  it  is,  in  many  respects,  uncongenial  and  injurious 
to  our  constitution.  What  suits  Great  Britain,  with  her  insular 
position  and  consequent  need  to  concentrate  and  intensify  her 
life,  her  limited  monarchy,  and  spirit  of  trade,  does  not  suit  a 
mixed  race,  continually  enriched  with  new  blood  from  other 
stocks  the  most  unlike  that  of  our  first  descent,  with  ample  field 
and  verge  enough  to  range  in  and  leave  every  impulse  free,  and 
abundant  opportunity  to  develope  a  genius,  wide  and  full  as  our 
rivers,  flowery,  luxuriant  and  impassioned  as  our  vast  prairies, 


124  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

rooted  in  strength  as  the  rocks  on  which  the  Puritan  fathers 
landed. 

That  such  a  genius  is  to  rise  and  work  in  this  hemisphere  we 
are  confident ;  equally  so  that  scarce  the  first  faint  streaks  of 
that  day's  dawn  are  yet  visible.  It  is  sad  for  those  that  fore 
see,  to  know  they  may  not  live  to  share  its  glories,  yet  it  is 
sweet,  too,  to  know  that  every  act  and  word,  uttered  in  the  light 
of  that  foresight,  may  tend  to  hasten  or  ennoble  its  fulfilment. 

That  day  will  not  rise  till  the  fusion  of  races  among  us  is 
more  complete.  It  will  not  rise  till  this  nation  shall  attain  suffi 
cient  moral  and  intellectual  dignity  to  prize  moral  and  intellec 
tual,  no  less  highly  than  political,  freedom,  not  till,  the  physical 
resources  of  the  country  being  explored,  all  its  regions  studded 
with  towns,  broken  by  the  plow,  netted  together  by  railways  and 
telegraph  lines,  talent  shall  be  left  at  leisure  to  turn  its  energies 
upon  the  higher  department  of  man's  existence.  Nor  then  shall  it 
be  seen  till  from  the  leisurely  and  yearning  soul  of  that  riper 
time  national  ideas  shall  take  birth,  ideas  craving  to  be  clothed 
in  a  thousand  fresh  and  original  forms. 

Without  such  ideas  all  attempts  to  construct  a  national  litera 
ture  must  end  in  abortions  like  the  monster  of  Frankenstein, 
things  with  forms,  and  the  instincts  of  forms,  but  soulless,  and 
therefore  revolting.  We  cannot  have  expression  till  there  is 
something  to  be  expressed. 

The  symptoms  of  such  a  birth  may  be  seen  in  a  longing  felt 
here  and  there  for  the  sustenance  of  such  ideas.  At  present,  it 
shows  itself,  where  felt,  in  sympathy  with  the  prevalent  tone  of 
society,  by  attempts  at  external  action,  such  as  are  classed  under 
the  head  of  social  reform.  But  it  needs  to  go  deeper,  before  we 
can  have  poets,  needs  to  penetrate  beneath  the  springs  of  action, 
to  stir  and  remake  the  soil  as  by  the  action  of  fire. 

Another  symptom  is  the  need  felt  by  individuals  of  being  even 
sternly  sincere.  This  is  the  one  great  means  by  which  alone 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  125 

progress  can  be  essentially  furthered.  Truth  is  the  nursing 
mother  of  genius.  No  man  can  be  absolutely  true  to  himself, 
eschewing  cant,  compromise,  servile  imitation,  and  complaisance, 
without  becoming  original,  for  there  is  in  every  creature  a  foun 
tain  of  life  which,  if  not  choked  back  by  stones  and  other  dead 
rubbish,  will  create  a  fresh  atmosphere,  and  bring  to  life  fresh 
beauty.  And  it  is  the  same  with  the  nation  as  with  the  indi 
vidual  man. 

The  best  work  we  do  for  the  future  is  by  such  truth.  By  use 
of  that,  in  whatever  way,  we  harrow  the  soil  and  lay  it  open  to 
the  sun  and  air.  The  winds  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe  bring 
seed  enough,  and  there  is  nothing  wanting  but  preparation  of  the 
soil,  and  freedom  in  the  atmosphere,  for  ripening  of  a  new  and 
golden  harvest. 

We  are  sad  that  we  cannot  be  present  at  the  gathering  in  of 
this  harvest.  And  yet  we  are  joyous,  too,  when  we  think  that 
though  our  name  may  not  be  writ  on  the  pillar  of  our  country's 
fame,  we  can  really  do  far  more  towards  rearing  it,  than  those 
who  come  at  a  later  period  and  to  a  seemingly  fairer  task.  Now, 
the  humblest  effort,  made  in  a  noble  spirit,  and  with  religious 
hope,  cannot  fail  to  be  even  infinitely  useful.  Whether  we  in 
troduce  some  noble  model  from  another  time  and  clime,  to  en 
courage  aspiration  in  our  own,  or  cheer  into  blossom  the  simplest 
wood-flower  that  ever  rose  from  the  earth,  moved  by  the  genuine 
impulse  to  grow,  independent  of  the  lures  of  money  or  celebrity  ; 
whether  we  speak  boldly  when  fear  or  doubt  keep  others  silent, 
or  refuse  to  swell  the  popular  cry  upon  an  unworthy  occasion, 
the  spirit  of  truth,  purely  worshipped,  shall  turn  our  acts  and 
forbearances  alike  to  profit,  informing  them  with  oracles  which 
the  latest  time  shall  bless. 

Under  present  circumstances  the  amount  of  talent  and  labour 
given  to  writing  ought  to  surprise  us.  Literature  is  in  this  dim 
and  struggling  state,  and  its  pecuniary  results  exceedingly 


126  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

pitiful.  From  many  well  known  causes  it  is  impossible  for 
ninety-nine  out  of  the  hundred,  who  wish  to  use  the  pen,  to 
ransom,  by  its  use,  the  time  they  need.  This  state  of  things  will 
have  to  be  changed  in  some  way.  No  man  of  genius  writes  for 
money  ;  but  it  is  essential  to  the  free  use  of  his  powers,  that  he 
should  be  able  to  disembarrass  his  life  from  care  and  perplexity. 
This  is  very  difficult  here  ;  and  the  state  of  things  gets  worse  and 
worse,  as  less  and  less  is  offered  in  pecuniary  meed  for  works 
demanding  great  devotion  of  time  and  labour  (to  say  nothing  of  the 
ether  engaged)  and  the  publisher,  obliged  to  regard  the  transac 
tion  as  a  matter  of  business,  demands  of  the  author  to  give  him 
only  what  will  find  an  immediate  market,  for  he  cannot  afford  to 
take  any  thing  else.  This  will  not  do  !  When  an  immortal 
poet  was  secure  only  of  a  few  copyists  to  circulate  his  works, 
there  were  princes  and  nobles  to  patronize  literature  and  the  arts. 
Here  is  only  the  public,  and  the  public  must  learn  how  to  cherish 
the  nobler  and  rarer  plants,  and  to  plant  the  aloe,  able  to  wait 
a  hundred  years  for  its  bloom,  or  its  garden  will  contain,  pres 
ently,  nothing  but  potatoes  and  pot-herbs.  We  shall  have,  in  the 
course  of  the  next  two  or  three  years,  a  convention  of  authors  to 
inquire  into  the  causes  of  this  state  of  things  and  propose  mea 
sures  for  its  remedy.  Some  have  already  been  thought  of  that 
look  promising,  but  we  shall  not  announce  them  till  the  time  be 
ripe  ;  that  date  is  not  distant,  for  the  difficulties  increase  from 
day  to  day,  in  consequence  of  the  system  of  cheap  publication, 
on  a  great  scale, 

The  ranks  that  led  the  way  in  the  first  half  century  of  this 
republic  were  far  better  situated  than  we,  in  this  respect.  The 
country  was  not  so  deluged  with  the  dingy  page,  reprinted  from 
Europe,  and  patriotic  vanity  was  on  the  alert  to  answer  the  ques 
tion,  "  Who  reads  an  American  book  V  And  many  were  the 
books  written,  worthy  to  be  read,  as  any  out  of  the  first  class  in 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  127 

England.  They  were,  most  of  them,  except  in  their  subject 
matter,  English  books. 

The  list  is  large,  and,  in  making  some  cursory  comments,  we 
do  not  wish  to  be  understood  as  designating  all  who  are  worthy 
of  notice,  but  only  those  who  present  themselves  to  our  minds 
with  some  special  claims.  In  history  there  has  been  nothing 
done  to  which  the  world  at  large  has  not  been  eager  to  award 
the  full  meed  of  its  deserts.  Mr.  Prescott,  for  instance,  has  been 
greeted  with  as  much  warmth  abroad  as  here.  We  are  not 
disposed  to  undervalue  his  industry  and  power  of  clear  and  ele 
gant  arrangement.  The  richness  and  freshness  of  his  materials 
is  such  that  a  sense  of  enchantment  must  be  felt  in  their 
contemplation.  We  must  regret,  however,  that  they  should  have 
been  first  presented  to  the  public  by  one  who  possesses  nothing 
of  the  higher  powers  of  the  historian,  great  leading  views,  or 
discernment  as  to  the  motives  of  action  and  the  spirit  of  an  era. 
Considering  the  splendour  of  the  materials  the  books  are  won 
derfully  tame,  and  every  one  must  feel  that  having  once  passed 
through  them  and  got  the  sketch  in  the  mind,  there  is  nothing 
else  to  which  it  will  recur.  The  absence  of  thought,  as  to  that 
great  picture  of  Mexican  life,  with  its  heroisms,  its  terrible  but 
deeply  significant  superstitions,  its  admirable  civic  refinement, 
seems  to  be  quite  unbroken. 

Mr.  Bancroft  is  a  far  more  vivid  writer ;  he  has  great  resources 
and  great  command  of  them,  and  leading  thoughts  by  whose  aid  he 
groups  his  facts.  But  we  cannot  speak  fully  of  his  historical 
works,  which  we  have  only  read  and  referred  to  here  and  there. 

In  the  department  cf  ethics  and  philosophy,  we  may  inscribe 
two  names  as  likely  to  live  and  be  blessed  and  honoured  in  the 
later  time.  These  are  the  names  of  Channing  and  of  Emerson. 

Dr.  Channing  had  several  leading  thoughts  which  correspond 
ed  with  the  wants  of  his  time,  and  have  made  him  in  it  a  father 
of  thought.  His  leading  idea  of  "the  dignity  of  human  nature" 


128  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

is  one  of  vast  results,  and  the  peculiar  form  in  which  he  advocated 
it  had  a  great  work  to  do  in  this  new  world.  The  spiritual 
beauty  of  his  writings  is  very  great ;  they  are  all  distinguished 
for  sweetness,  elevation,  candour,  and  a  severe  devotion  to  truth. 
On  great  questions,  he  took  middle  ground,  and  sought  a  pano 
ramic  view  ;  he  wished  also  to  stand  high,  yet  never  forgot  what 
was  above  more  than  what  was  around  and  beneath  him.  He 
was  not  well  acquainted  with  man  on  the  impulsive  and  pas 
sionate  side  of  his  nature,  so  that  his  view  of  character  was 
sometimes  narrow,  but  it  was  always  noble.  He  exercised  an 
expansive  and  purifying  power  on  the  atmosphere,  and  stands  a 
godfather  at  the  baptism  of  this  country. 

The  Sage  of  Concord  has  a  very  different  mind,  in  every 
thing  except  that  he  has  the  same  disinterestedness  and  dignity 
of  purpose,  the  same  purity  of  spirit.  He  is  a  profound  thinker. 
He  is  a  man  of  ideas,  and  deals  with  causes  rather  than  effects. 
His  ideas  are  illustrated  from  a  wide  range  of  literary  culture 
and  refined  observation,  and  embodied  in  a  style  whose  melody 
and  subtle  fragrance  enchant  those  who  stand  stupified  before  the 
thoughts  themselves,  because  their  utmost  depths  do  not  enable 
them  to  sound  his  shallows.  His  influence  does  not  yet  extend 
over  a  wide  space  ;  he  is  too  far  beyond  his  place  and  his  time, 
to  be  felt  at  once  or  in  full,  but  it  searches  deep,  and  yearly 
widens  its  circles.  He  is  a  harbinger  of  the  better  day.  His 
beautiful  elocution  has  been  a  great  aid  to  him  in  opening  the 
way  for  the  reception  of  his  written  word. 

In  that  large  department  of  literature  which  includes  descrip 
tive  sketches,  whether  of  character  or  scenery,  we  are  alreadv 
rich.  Irving,  a  genial  and  fair  nature,  just  what  he  ought  to  be, 
and  would  have  been,  at  any  time  of  the  world,  has  drawn  the 
scenes  amid  which  his  youth  was  spent  in  their  primitive  linea 
ments,  with  all  the  charms  of  his  graceful  jocund  humour.  Ho 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 


has  his  niche  and  need  never  be  deposed  ;  it  is  not  one  that 
another  could  occupy. 

The  first  enthusiasm  about  Cooper  having  subsided,  we  remem 
ber  more  his  faults  than  his  merits.  His  ready  resentment  and 
way  of  showing  it  in  cases  which  it  is  the  wont  of  gentlemen  to 
pass  by  in  silence,  or  meet  with  a  good  humoured  smile,  have 
caused  unpleasant  associations  with  his  name,  and  his  fellow 
citizens,  in  danger  of  being  tormented  by  suits  for  libel,  if  they 
spoke  freely  of  him,  have  ceased  to  speak  of  him  at  all.  But 
neither  these  causes,  nor  the  baldness  of  his  plots,  shallowness  of 
thought,  and  poverty  in  the  presentation  of  character,  should 
make  us  forget  the  grandeur  and  originality  of  his  sea-sketches, 
nor  the  redemption  from  oblivion  of  our  forest-scenery,  and  the 
noble  romance  of  the  hunter-pioneer's  life.  Already,  but  for 
him,  this  fine  page  of  life's  romance  would  be  almost  forgot 
ten.  He  has  done  much  to  redeem  these  irrevocable  beauties 
from  the  corrosive  acid  of  a  semi-civilized  invasion.* 

*  Since  writing  the  above  we  have  read  some  excellent  remarks  by  Mr.  W. 
G.  Simms  on  the  writings  of  Cooper.  We  think  the  reasons  are  given  for  the 
powerful  interest  excited  by  Hawk  Eye  and  the  Pilot,  with  great  discrimination 
and  force. 

"  They  both  think  and  feel,  with  a  highly  individual  nature,  that  has  been 
taught,  by  constant  contemplation,  in  scenes  of  solitude.  The  vast  unbroken 
ranges  of  forest  to  its  one  lonely  occupant  press  upon  the  mind  with  the  same 
sort  of  solemnity  which  one  feels  condemned  to  a  life  of  partial  isolation  upon 
the  ocean.  Both  are  permitted  that  degree  of  commerce  with  their  fellow  beings, 
which  suffices  to  maintain  in  strength  the  sweet  and  sacred  sources  of  their 
humanity.  *  *  *  The  very  isolation  to  which,  in  the  most  successful  of  his 
stories,  Mr.  Cooper  subjects  his  favourite  personages,  is,  alone,  a  proof  of  his 
strength  and  genius.  While  the  ordinary  writer,  the  man  of  mere  talent,  is 
compelled  to  look  around  him  among  masses  for  his  material,  he  contents  him 
self  with  one  man,  and  flings  him  upon  the  wilderness.  The  picture,  then, 
which  follows,  must  be  one  of  intense  individuality.  Out  of  this  one  man's  na 
ture,  his  moods  and  fortunes,  he  spins  his  story.  The  agencies  and  dependen 
cies  are  few.  With  the  self-reliance  which  is  only  found  in  true  genius,  he 


130  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Miss  Sedgwick  and  others  have  portrayed,  with  skill  and  feel- 
ing,  scenes  and  personages  from  the  revolutionary  time.  Such 
have  a  permanent  value  in  proportion  as  their  subject  is  fleeting. 
The  same  charm  attends  the  spirited  delineations  of  Mrs.  Kirk- 
land,  and  that  amusing  book,  "  A  New  Purchase."  The  features 
of  Hoosier,  Sucker,  and  Wolverine  life  are  worth  fixing ;  they 
are  peculiar  to  the  soil,  and  indicate  its  hidden  treasures  ;  they 
have,  also,  that  charm  which  simple  life,  lived  for  its  own  sake, 
always  has,  even  in  rude  and  all  but  brutal  forms. 

What  shall  we  say  of  the  poets  ?  The  list  is  scanty  ;  amazingly 
so,  for  there  is  nothing  in  the  causes  that  paralyze  other  kinds 
of  literature  that  could  affect  lyrical  and  narrative  poetry.  Men's 
hearts  beat,  hope,  and  suffer  always,  and  they  must  crave  such 
means  to  vent  them  ;  yet  of  the  myriad  leaves  garnished  with 
smooth  stereotyped  rhymes  that  issue  yearly  from  our  press,  you 
will  not  find,  one  time  in  a  million,  a  little  piece  written  from  any 
such  impulse,  or  with  the  least  sincerity  or  sweetness  of  tone. 
They  are  written  for  the  press,  in  the  spirit  of  imitation  or  vanity, 
the  paltriest  offspring  of  the  human  brain,  for  the  heart  dis 
claims,  as  the  ear  is  shut  against  them.  This  is  the  kind  of 
verse  which  is  cherished  by  the  magazines  as  a  correspondent  to 
the  tawdry  pictures  of  smiling  milliners'  dolls  in  the  frontispiece. 
Like  these  they  are  only  a  fashion,  a  fashion  based  on  no  reality 
of  love  or  beauty.  The  inducement  to  write  them  consists  in  a 
little  money,  or  more  frequently  the  charm  of  seeing  an  anony 
mous  name  printed  at  the  top  in  capitals. 

We  must  here,  in  passing,  advert  also  to  the  style  of  story 

goes  forward  into  the  wilderness,  whether  of  land  or  ocean ;  and  the  vicissi 
tudes  of  either  region,  acting  upon  the  natural  resources  of  one  man's  mind, 
furnish  the  whole  material  of  his  work-shop.  This  mode  of  performance  is 
highly  dramatic,  and  thus  it  is  that  his  scout,  his  trapper,  his  hunter,  his  pilot, 
all  live  to  our  eyes  and  thoughts,  the  perfect  ideals  of  moral  individuality." 

No  IX.  Wiley  and  Putnam's  Library  of  American  books.— Views  and  Re 
views  by  W.  G.  Simms. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  131 

current  in  the  magazines,  flimsy  beyond  any  texture  that  was 
ever  spun  or  even  dreamed  of  by  the  mind  of  man,  in  any  other 
age  and  country.  They  are  said  to  be  "  written  for  the  seam 
stresses,"  but  we  believe  that  every  way  injured  class  could 
relish  and  digest  better  fare  even  at  the  end  of  long  days  of 
exhausting  labour.  There  are  exceptions  to  this  censure  ;  stories 
by  Mrs.  Child  have  been  published  in  the  magazines,  and  now 
and  then  good  ones  by  Mrs.  Stephens  and  others ;  but,  take  them 
generally,  they  are  calculated  to  do  a  positive  injury  to  the  pub 
lic  mind,  acting  as  an  opiate,  and  of  an  adulterated  kind,  too. 

But  to  return  to  the  poets.  At  their  head  Mr.  Bryant  stands 
alone.  His  range  is  not  great,  nor  his  genius  fertile.  But  his 
poetry  is  purely  the  language  of  his  inmost  nature,  and  the  sim 
ple  lovely  garb  in  which  his  thoughts  are  arranged,  a  direct  gift 
from  the  Muse.  He  has  written  nothing  that  is  not  excellent, 
and  the  atmosphere  of  his  verse  refreshes  and  composes  the 
mind,  like  leaving  the  highway  to  enter  some  green,  lovely, 
fragrant  wood. 

Halleck  and  Willis  are  poets  of  society.  Though  the  former 
has  written  so  little,  yet  that  little  is  full  of  fire, — elegant,  witty, 
delicate  in  sentiment.  It  is  an  honour  to  the  country  that  these 
occasional  sparks,  struck  off  from  the  flint  of  commercial  life, 
should  have  kindled  so  much  flame  as  they  have.  It  is  always  a 
consolation  to  see  one  of  them  sparkle  amid  the  rubbish  of  daily 
life.  One  of  his  poems  has  been  published  within  the  last  year, 
written,  in  fact,  long  ago,  but  new  to  most  of  us,  and  it  enlivened 
the  literary  thoroughfare,  as  a  green  wreath  might  some  dusty, 
musty  hall  of  legislation. 

Willis  has  not  the  same  terseness  or  condensed  electricity. 
But  he  has  grace,  spirit,  at  times  a  winning  pensiveness,  and  a 
lively,  though  almost  wholly  sensuous,  delight  in  the  beautiful. 

Dana  has  written  so  little  that  he  would  hardly  be  seen  in  a 
more  thickly  garnished  galaxy.  But  the  masculine  strength  of 


132  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

feeling,  the  solemn  tenderness  and  refined  thought  displayed  in 
such  pieces  as  the  "  Dying  Raven,"  and  the  "  Husband  and 
Wife's  Grave,"  have  left  a  deep  impression  on  the  popular  mind. 

Longfellow  is  artificial  and  imitative.  He  borrows  incessant 
ly,  and  mixes  what  he  borrows,  so  that  it  does  not  appear  to  the 
best  advantage.  He  is  very  faulty  in  using  broken  or  mixed 
metaphors.  The  ethical  part  of  his  writing  has  a  hollow,  second 
hand  sound.  He  has,  however,  elegance,  a  love  of  the  beautiful, 
and  a  fancy  for  what  is  large  and  manly,  if  not  a  full  sympathy 
with  it.  His  verse  breathes  at  times  much  sweetness;  and,  if 
not  allowed  to  supersede  what  is  better  may  promote  a  taste  for  good 
poetry.  Though  imitative,  he  is  not  mechanical. 

We  cannot  say  as  much  for  Lowell,  who,  we  must  declare  it, 
though  to  the  grief  of  some  friends,  and  the  disgust  of  more,  is 
absolutely  wanting  in  the  true  spirit  and  tone  of  poesy.  His  in 
terest  in  the  moral  questions  of  the  day  has  supplied  the  want  of 
vitality  in  himself;  his  great  facility  at  versification  has  enabled 
him  to  fill  the  ear  with  a  copious  stream  of  pleasant  sound. 
But  his  verse  is  stereotyped  ;  his  thought  sounds  no  depth,  and 
posterity  will  not  remember  him. 

R.  W.  Emerson,  in  melody,  in  subtle  beauty  of  thought  and 
expression,  takes  the  highest  rank  upon  this  list.  But  his  poems 
are  mostly  philosophical,  which  is  not  the  truest  kind  of  poetry. 
They  want  the  simple  force  of  nature  and  passion,  and,  while 
they  charm  the  ear  and  interest  the  mind,  fail  to  wake  far-off 
echoes  in  the  heart.  The  imagery  wears  a  symbolical  air,  and 
serves  rather  as  illustration,  than  to  delight  us  by  fresh  and  glow 
ing  forms  of  life. 

We  must  here  mention  one  whom  the  country  has  not  yet 
learned  to  honour,  perhaps  never  may,  for  he  wants  artistic  skill 
to  give  complete  form  to  his  inspiration.  This  is  William  Ellery 
Channing,  nephew  and  namesake  of  Dr.  C.,  a  volume  of  whose 
poems,  published  three  or  four  years  ago  in  Boston,  remains  un- 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  133 

known,  except  to  a  few  friends,  nor,  if  known,  would  they  proba 
bly,  excite  sympathy,  as  those  which  have  been  published  in  the 
periodicals  have  failed  to  do  so.  Yet  some  of  the  purest  tones  of 
the  lyre  are  his,  the  finest  inspirations  as  to  the  feelings  and  pas 
sions  of  men,  deep  spiritual  insight,  and  an  entire  originality  in 
the  use  of  his  means.  The  frequently  unfinished  and  obscure 
state  of  his  poems,  a  passion  for  forcing  words  out  of  their  usual 
meaning  into  one  which  they  may  appropriately  bear,  but  which 
comes  upon  the  reader  with  an  unpleasing  and  puzzling  surprise, 
may  repel,  at  first  glance,  from  many  of  these  poems,  but  do  not 
mar  the  following  sublime  description  of  the  beings  we  want, 
to  rule,  to  redeem,  to  re-create  this  nation,  and  under  whose 
reign  alone  can  there  be  an  American  literature,  for  then  only 
could  we  have  life  worth  recording.  The  simple  grandeur  of 
this  poem  as  a  whole,  must  be  felt  by  every  one,  while  each  line 
and  thought  will  be  found  worthy  of  earnest  contemplation  and 
satisfaction  after  the  most  earnest  life  and  thought. 

Hearts  of  Eternity !  hearts  of  the  deep ! 
Proclaim  from  land  to  sea  your  mighty  fate ; 
How  that  for  you  no  living  comes  too  late; 
How  ye  cannot  in  Theban  labyrinth  creep ; 
How  ye  great  harvests  from  small  surface  reap ; 
Shout,  excellent  band,  in  grand  primeval  strain, 
Like  midnight  winds  that  foam  along  the  main, 
And  do  all  things  rather  than  pause  to  weep. 
A  human  heart  knows  naught  of  littleness, 
Suspects  no  man,  compares  with  no  man's  ways, 
Hath  in  one  hour  most  glorious  length  of  days, 
A  recompense,  a  joy,  a  loveliness ; 
Like  eaglet  keen,  shoots  into  azure  far, 
And  always  dwelling  nigh  is  the  remotest  star. 

A  series  of  poems,  called  "  Man  in  the  Republic,"  by  Corne 
lius  Mathews,  deserves  a  higher  meed  of  sympathy  than  it  has 
received.  The  thoughts  and  views  are  strong  and  noble,  the  ex- 


134  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

hibition  of  them  imposing.  In  plastic  power  this  writer  is  defi 
cient.  His  prose  works  sin  in  exuberance,  and  need  consolida 
ting  and  chastening.  We  find  fine  things,  but  not  so  arranged 
as  to  be  seen  in  the  right  places  and  by  the  best  light.  In  his 
poems  Mr.  Mathews  is  unpardonably  rough  and  rugged  ;  the  poetic 
substance  finds  no  musical  medium  in  which  to  flow.  Yet  there 
is  poetic  substance  which  makes  full  chords,  if  not  a  harmony. 
He  holds  a  worthy  sense  of  the  vocation  of  the  poet,  and  worthily 
expresses  it  thus  : — 

To  strike  or  bear,  to  conquer  or  to  yield 
Teach  thou !  O  topmost  crown  of  duty,  teach, 
What  fancy  whispers  to  the  listening  ear, 
At  hours  when  tongue  nor  taint  of  care  impeach 
The  fruitful  calm  of  greatly  silent  hearts  ; 
When  all  the  stars  for  happy  thought  are  set, 
And,  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the  soul, 
AH  blessed  powers  of  joyful  truth  are  met ; 
Though  calm  and  garlandless  thou  mayst  appear, 
The  world  shall  know  thee  for  its  crowned  seer. 

A  considerable  portion  of  the  hope  and  energy  of  this  country 
still  turns  towards  the  drama,  that  greatest  achievement  when 
wrought  to  perfection  of  human  power.  For  ourselves,  we 
believe  the  day  of  the  regular  drama  to  be  past  ;  and,  though  we 
recognize  the  need  of  some  kind  of  spectacle  and  dramatic  repre 
sentation  to  be  absolutely  coincident  with  an  animated  state  of 
the  public  mind,  we  have  thought  that  the  opera,  ballet,  panto- 
mine  and  briefer,  more  elastic  forms,  like  the  vaudeville  of  the 
French  theatre,  or  the  proverb  of  the  social  party,  would  take  the 
place  of  elaborate  tragedy  and  comedy. 

But  those  who  find  the  theatres  of  this  city  well  filled  all  the 
year  round  by  an  audience  willing  to  sit  out  the  heroisms  of 
Holla,  and  the  sentimentalism  and  stale  morality  of  such  a  piece 
as  we  were  doomed  to  listen  to  while  the  Keans  were  here, 
("  Town  and  Country"  was  its  name,)  still  think  there  is  room 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  135 

for  the  regular  drama,  if  genius  should  engage  in  its  creation. 
Accordingly  there  have  been  in  this  country,  as  well  as  in  Eng 
land,  many  attempts  to  produce  dramas  suitable  for  action  no  less 
than  for  the  closet.  The  actor,  Murdoch,  about  to  devote 
himself  with  enthusiasm  and  hope  to  prop  up  a  falling  profession, 
is  to  bring  out  a  series  of  plays  written,  not  merely  for  him,  but 
because  his  devotion  is  likely  to  furnish  fit  occasion  for  their 
appearance.  The  first  of  these,  "  Witchcraft,  a  tragedy," 
brought  out  successfully  upon  the  boards  at  Philadelphia,  we 
have  read,  and  it  is  a  work  of  strong  and  majestic  lineaments;  a 
fine  originality  is  shown  in  the  conception,  by  which  the  love  of 
a  son  for  a  mother  is  made  a  sufficient  tnotiv  (as  the  Germans 
call  the  ruling  impulse  of  a  work)  in  the  production  of  tragic 
interest ;  no  less  original  is  the  attempt,  and  delightful  the  suc 
cess,  in  making  an  aged  woman  a  satisfactory  heroine  to  the 
piece  through  the  greatness  of  her  soul,  and  the  magnetic  influ 
ence  it  exerts  on  all  around  her,  till  the  ignorant  and  superstitious 
fancy  that  the  sky  darkens  and  the  winds  wait  upon  her  as  she 
walks  on  the  lonely  hill-side  near  her  hut  to  commune  with  the 
Past,  and  seek  instruction  from  Heaven.  The  working  of  her 
character  on  the  other  agents  of  the  piece  is  depicted  with  force 
and  nobleness.  The  deep  love  of  her  son  for  her,  the  little  ten 
der,  simple  ways  in  which  he  shows  it,  having  preserved  the 
purity  and  poetic  spirit  of  childhood  by  never  having  been  weaned 
from  his  first  love,  a  mother's  love,  the  anguish  of  his  soul  when 
he  too  becomes  infected  with  distrust,  and  cannot  discriminate 
the  natural  magnetism  of  a  strong  nature  from  the  spells  and 
lures  of  sorcery,  the  final  triumph  of  his  faith,  all  offered  the 
highesl  scope  to  genius  and  the  power  of  moral  perception  in  the 
actor.  There  are  highly  poetic  intimations  of  those  lowering  days 
with  their  veiled  skies,  brassy  light,  and  sadly  whispering  winds, 
very  common  in  Massachusetts,  so  ominous  and  brooding  seen  from 
any  point,  but  from  the  idea  of  witchcraft,  invested  with  an  awful 


136  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

significance.  We  do  not  know,  however,  that  this  could  bring 
it  beyond  what  it  has  appeared  to  our  own  sane  mind,  as 
if  the  air  was  thick  with  spirits,  in  an  equivocal  and  surely  sad 
condition,  whether  of  purgatory  or  downfall ;  and  the  air  was 
vocal  with  all  mariner  of  dark  intimations.  We  are  glad  to  see 
this  mood  of  nature  so  fitly  characterized. 

The  sweetness  and  naivete  with  which  the  young  girl  is  made 
to  describe  the  effects  of  love  upon  her,  as  supposing  them  to 
proceed  from  a  spell,  are  also  original,  and  there  is  no  other  way 
in  which  this  revelation  could  have  been  induced  that  would  not 
have  injured  the  beauty  of  the  character  and  position.  Her 
visionary  sense  of  her  lover,  as  an  ideal  figure,  is  of  a  high 
order  of  poetry,  and  these  facts  have  very  seldom  been  brought 
out  from  the  cloisters  of  the  mind  into  the  light  of  open  day. 

The  play  is  very  deficient  as  regards  rhythm ;  indeed,  we 
might  say  there  is  no  apparent  reason  why  the  lines  should  begin 
with  capital  letters.  The  minor  personages  are  mere  caricatures, 
very  coarsely  drawn  ;  all  the  power  is  concentrated  on  the  main 
characters  and  their  emotions.  So  did  not  Shakspeare,  does  not 
ever  the  genuine  dramatist,  whose  mind  teems  with  "  the  fulness 
of  forms."  As  Raphael  in  his  most  crowded  groups  can  put 
in  no  misplaced  or  imperfect  foot  or  hand,  neither  neglect  to  in 
vest  the  least  important  figure  of  his  backgrounds  with  every 
characteristic  trait,  nor  could  spare  the  invention  of  the  most 
beautiful  coiffure  and  accessories  for  the  humblest  handmaid  of 
his  Madonnas,  so  doth  the  great  artist  always  clothe  the  whole 
picture  with  full  and  breathing  life,  for  it  appears  so  before  his 
mental  eye.  But  minds  not  perfectly  artistical,  yet  of  strong 
conceptions,  subordinate  the  rest  to  one  or  two  leading  figures, 
and  the  imperfectly  represented  life  of  the  others  incloses  them, 
as  in  a  frame. 

In  originality  of  conception  and  resting  the  main  interest  upon 
force  of  character  in  a  woman,  this  drama  naturally  leads  us  to 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  137 

revert  to  a  work  in  the  department  of  narrative  fiction,  which,  on 
similar  grounds,  comes  to  us  as  a  harbinger  of  the  new  era. 
This  book  is  "  Margaret,  or  the  Real  and  Ideal,"  a  work  which 
has  appeared  within  the  past  year ;  and,  considering  its  origi 
nality  and  genuineness,  has  excited  admiration  and  sympathy 
amazingly  soon.  Even  some  leading  reviews,  of  what  Byron 
used  to  speak  of  as  the  "  garrison  "  class,  (a  class  the  most 
opposite  imaginable  to  that  of  Garrison  abolitionists,)  have  dis 
cussed  its  pretensions  and  done  homage  to  its  merits.  It  is  a 
work  of  great  power  and  richness,  a  genuine  disclosure  of  the 
life  of  mind  and  the  history  of  character.  Its  descriptions  of 
scenery  and  the  common  people,  in  the  place  and  time  it  takes 
up,  impart  to  it  the  highest  value  as  a  representative  of  transient 
existence,  which  had  a  great  deal  of  meaning.  The  beautiful 
simplicity  of  action  upon  and  within  the  mind  of  Margaret, 
Heaven  lying  so  clearly  about  her  in  the  infancy  «f  the  hut  of 
drunkards,  the  woods,  the  village,  and  their  ignorant,  simply 
human  denizens,  her  unconscious  growth  to  the  stature  of  woman 
hood,  the  flow  of  life  impelled  by  her,  the  spiritual  intimations 
of  her  dreams,  the  prophecies  of  music  in  the  character  of 
Chilion,  the  naive  discussion  of  the  leading  reform  movements  of 
the  day  in  their  rudimental  forms,  the  archness,  the  humour,  the 
profound  religious  faith,  make  of  this  book  an  aviary  from  which 
doves  shall  go  forth  to  discover  and  report  of  all  the  green  spots 
of  promise  in  the  land.  Of  books  like  this,  as  good,  and  still 
better,  our  new  literature  shall  be  full ;  and,  though  one  swallow 
does  not  make  a  summer,  yet  we  greet,  in  this  one  "  Yankee 
novel,"  the  sufficient  earnest  of  riches  that  only  need  the  skill 
of  competent  miners  to  be  made  current  for  the  benefit  of  man. 

Meanwhile,  the  most  important  part  of  our  literature,  while 
the  work  of  diffusion  is  still  going  on,  lies  in  the  journals,  which 
monthly,  weekly,  daily,  send  their  messages  to  every  corner  of 


138  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

this  great  land,  and  form,  at  present,  the  only  efficient  instrument 
for  the  general  education  of  the  people. 

Among  these,  the  Magazines  take  the  lowest  rank.  Their 
object  is  principally  to  cater  for  the  amusement  of  vacant  hours, 
and,  as  there  is  not  a  great  deal  of  wit  and  light  talent  in  this 
country,  they  do  not  even  this  to  much  advantage.  More  wit, 
grace,  and  elegant  trifling,  embellish  the  annals  of  literature  in 
one  day  of  France  than  in  a  year  of  America. 

The  Reviews  are  more  able.  If  they  cannot  compare,  on  equal 
terms,  with  those  of  France,  England,  and  Germany,  where,  if 
genius  be  rare,  at  least  a  vast  amount  of  talent  and  culture  are 
brought  to  bear  upon  all  the  departments  of  knowledge,  they  are 
yet  very  creditable  to  a  new  country,  where  so  large  a  portion  of 
manly  ability  must  be  bent  on  making  laws,  making  speeches, 
making  rail-roads  and  canals.  They  are,  however,  much  injur 
ed  by  a  partisan  spirit,  and  the  fear  of  censure  from  their  own 
public.  This  last  is  always  slow  death  to  a  journal ;  its  natural 
and  only  safe  position  is  to  lead  ;  if,  instead,  it  bows  to  the  will 
of  the  multitude,  it  will  find  the  ostracism  of  democracy  far  more 
dangerous  than  the  worst  censure  of  a  tyranny  could  be.  It  is 
not  half  so  dangerous  to  a  man  to  be  immured  in  a  dungeon  alone 
with  God  and  his  own  clear  conscience,  as  to  walk  the  streets 
fearing  the  scrutiny  of  a  thousand  eyes,  ready  to  veil,  with  anx 
ious  care,  whatever  may  not  suit  the  many-headed  monster  in  its 
momentary  mood.  Gentleness  is  dignified,  but  caution  is  debas 
ing  ;  only  a  noble  fearlessness  can  give  wings  to  the  mind,  with 
which  to  soar  beyond  the  common  ken,  and  learn  what  may  be  of 
use  to  the  crowd  below.  Writers  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  love 
truth  fervently,  seek  justice  according  to  their  ability,  and  then 
express  what  is  in  the  mind  ;  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  con 
sequences,  God  will  take  care  of  those.  The  want  of  such  noble 
courage,  suqh  faith  in  the  power  of  truth  and  good  desire,  paralyze 
mind  greatly  in  this  country.  Publishers  are  afraid ;  authors 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  139 

are  afraid ;  and  if  a  worthy  resistance  is  not  made  by  religious 
souls,  there  is  danger  that  all  the  light  will  soon  be  put  under 
bushels,  lest  some  wind  should  waft  from  it  a  spark  that  may 
kindle  dangerous  fire. 

For  want  of  such  faith,  and  the  catholic  spirit  that  flows  from 
it,  we  have  no  great  leading  Review.  The  North  American  was 
once  the  best.  While  under  the  care  of  Edward  Everett,  himself  a 
host  in  extensive  knowledge,  grace  and  adroitness  in  applying  it, 
and  the  power  of  enforcing  grave  meanings  by  a  light  and  flexi 
ble  satire  that  tickled  while  it  wounded,  it  boasted  more  force, 
more  life,  a  finer  scope  of  power.  But  now,  though  still  exhibit 
ing  ability  and  information  upon  special  points,  it  is  entirely  de 
ficient  in  great  leadings,  and  the  vivida  vis,  but  ambles  and  jogs 
at  an  old  gentlemanly  pace  along  a  beaten  path  that  leads  to  no 
important  goal. 

Several  other  journals  have  more  life,  energy  and  directness 
than  this,  but  there  is  none  which  occupies  a  truly  great  and 
commanding  position,  a  beacon  light  to  all  who  sail  that  way.  In 
order  to  this,  a  journal  must  know  how  to  cast  aside  all  local  and 
temporary  considerations  when  new  convictions  command,  and 
allow  free  range  in  its  columns,  to  all  kinds  of  ability,  and  all 
ways  of  viewing  subjects.  That  would  give  it  a  life,  rich,  bold 
various. 

The  life  of  intellect  is  becoming  more  and  more  determined  to 
the  weekly  and  daily  papers,  whose  light  leaves  fly  so  rapidly 
and  profusely  over  the  land.  Speculations  are  afloat,  as  to  the 
influence  of  the  electric  telegraph  upon  their  destiny,  and  it  seems 
obvious  that  it  should  raise  their  character  by  taking  from  them  in 
some  measure,  the  office  of  gathering  and  dispersing  the  news, 
and  requiring  of  them  rather  to  arrange  and  interpret  it. 

This  mode  of  communication  is  susceptible  of  great  excellence 
in  the  way  of  condensed  essay,  narrative,  criticism,  and  is  the 
natural  receptacle  for  the  lyrics  of  the  day.  That  so  few  good 


140  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

ones  deck  the  poet's  corner,  is  because  the  indifference  or  unfit- 
ness  of  editors,  as  to  choosing  and  refusing,  makes  this  place,  at 
present,  undesirable  to  the  poet.  It  might  be  otherwise. 

The  means  which  this  organ  affords  of  diffusing  knowledge  and 
sowing  the  seeds  of  thought  where  they  may  hardly  fail  of  an 
infinite  harvest,  cannot  be  too  highly  prized  by  the  discerning  and 
benevolent.  Minds  of  the  first  class  are  generally  indisposed 
to  this  kind  of  writing ;  what  must  be  done  on  the  spur  of  the 
occasion  and  cast  into  the  world  so  incomplete,  as  the  hurried  off 
spring  of  a  day  or  hour's  labour  must  generally  be,  cannot  satisfy 
their  judgment,  or  do  justice  to  their  powers.  But  he  who  looks 
to  the  benefit  of  others,  and  sees  with  what  rapidity  and  ease  in 
struction  and  thought  are  assimilated  by  men,  when  they  come 
thus,  as  it  were,  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  may  be  content,  as  an 
unhonoured  servant  to  the  grand  purposes  of  Destiny,  to  work  in 
such  a  way  at  the  Pantheon  which  the  Ages  shall  complete,  on 
which  his  name  may  not  be  inscribed,  but  which  will  breathe  the 
life  of  his  soul. 

The  confidence  in  uprightness  of  intent,  and  the  safety  of  truth, 
is  still  more  needed  here  than  in  the  more  elaborate  kinds  of  wri 
ting,  as  meanings  cannot  be  fully  explained  nor  expressions  re 
vised.  Newspaper  writing  is  next  door  to  conversation,  and 
should  be  conducted  on  the  same  principles.  It  has  this  advan 
tage  :  we  address,  not  our  neighbour,  who  forces  us  to  remember 
his  limitations  and  prejudices,  but  the  ideal  presence  of  human 
nature  as  we  feel  it  ought  to  be  and  trust  it  will  be.  We  address 
America  rather  than  Americans. 

A  worthy  account  of  the  vocation  and  duties  of  the  journalist, 
is  given  by  Cornelius  Mathews.  Editors,  generally,  could  not 
do  better  than  every  New  Year's  day  to  read  and  insert  the  fol 
lowing  verses. 

As  shakes  the  canvass  of  a  thousand  ships, 
Struck  by  a  heavy  land-breeze,  far  at  sea, 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  141 

Ruffle  the  thousand  broad  sheets  of  the  land, 
Filled  with  the  people's  breath  of  potency. 

A  thousand  images  the  hour  will  take, 

From  him  who  strikes,  who  rules,  who  speaks,  who  sings, 
Many  within  the  hour  their  grave  to  make, 

Many  to  live,  far  in  the  heart  of  things. 

A  dark-dyed  spirit  he,  who  coins  the  tune, 

To  virtue's  wrong,  in  base  disloyal  lies, 
Who  makes  the  morning's  breath,  the  evening's  tide, 

The  utterer  of  his  blighting  forgeries. 

How  beautiful  who  scatters,  wide  and  free, 

The  gold-bright  seeds  of  loved  and  loving  truth ! 

By  whose  perpetual  hand,  each  day  supplied, 
Leaps  to  new  life  the  empire's  heart  of  youth. 

To  know  the  instant  and  to  speak  it  true, 

Its  passing  lights  of  joy,  its  dark,  sad  cloud, 
To  fix  upon  the  unnumbered  gazers'  view, 

Is  to  thy  ready  hand's  broad  strength  allowed. 

There  is  an  inwrought  life  in  every  hour, 

Fit  to  be  chronicled  at  large  and  told. 
'Tis  thine  to  pluck  to  light  its  secret  power, 

And  on  the  air  its  many-colored  heart  unfold. 

The  angel  that  in  sand-dropped  minutes  lives, 

Demands  a  message  cautious  as  the  ages, 
Who  stuns,  with  dusk-red  words  of  hate  his  ear, 

That  mighty  power  to  boundless  wrath  enrages. 

This  feeling  of  the  dignity  of  his  office,  honour  and  power  in 
fulfilling  it,  are  not  common  in  the  journalist,  but,  where  they 
exist,  a  mark  has  been  left  fully  correspondent  to  the  weight  of 
the  instrument.  The  few  editors  of  this  country  who,  with  men 
tal  ability  and  resource,  have  combined  strength  of  purpose  and 
fairness  of  conduct,  who  have  never  merged  the  man  and  the 
gentleman  in  the  partisan,  who  have  been  willing  to  have  all  sides 
fully  heard,  while  their  convictions  were  clear  on  one,  who  have 
disdained  groundless  assaults  or  angry  replies,  and  have  valued 


143  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

what  was  sincere,  characteristic  and  free,  too  much  to  bend  to 
popular  errors  they  felt  able  to  correct,  have  been  so  highly 
prized  that  it  is  wonderful  that  more  do  not  learn  the  use  of  thia 
great  opportunity.  It  will  be  learned  yet ;  the  resources  of  this 
organ  of  thought  and  instruction  begin  to  bo  understood,  and 
shall  yet  be  brought  out  and  used  worthily. 

We  see  we  have  omitted  honoured  names  in  this  essay.  We 
have  not  spoken  of  Brown,  as  a  novelist  by  far  our  first  in  point 
of  genius  and  instruction  as  to  the  soul  of  things.  Yet  his  works 
have  fallen  almost  out  of  print.  It  is  their  dark,  deep  gloom 
that  prevents  their  being  popular,  for  their  very  beauties  are  grave 
and  sad.  But  we  see  that  Ormond  is  being  republished  at  this 
moment.  The  picture  of  Roman  character,  of  the  life  and  re 
sources  of  a  single  noble  creature,  of  Constantia  alone,  should 
make  that  book  an  object  of  reverence.  All  these  novels  should 
be  republished  •  if  not  favorites,  they  should  at  least  not  be  lost 
sight  of,  for  there  will  always  be  some  who  find  in  such  powers 
of  mental  analysis  the  only  response  to  their  desires. 

We  have  not  spoken  of  Hawthorne,  the  best  writer  of  the  day, 
in  a  similar  range  with  Irving,  only  touching  many  more  points 
and  discerning  far  more  deeply.  But  we  have  omitted  many 
things  in  this  slight  sketch,  for  the  subject,  even  in  this  stage,  lies 
as  a  volume  in  our  mind,  and  cannot  be  unrolled  in  completeness 
unless  time  and  space  were  more  abundant.  Our  object  was  to 
show  that  although  by  a  thousand  signs,  the  existence  is  foreshown 
of  those  forces  which  are  to  animate  an  American  literature,  that 
faith,  those  hopes  are  not  yet  alive  which  shall  usher  it  into  a  ho 
mogeneous  or  fully  organized  state  of  being.  The  future  is 
glorious  with  certainties  for  those  who  do  their  duty  in  the  pres 
ent,  and,  lark-like,  seeking  the  sun,  challenge  its  eagles  to  an 
earthward  flight,  where  their  nests  may  be  built  in  our  mountains, 
and  their  young  raise  their  cry  of  triumph,  unchecked  by  dullness 
in  the  echoes. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  143 

Since  finishing  the  foregoing  essay,  the  publication  of  some 
volumes  by  Hawthorne  and  Brown  have  led  to  notices  in  "  The 
Tribune,"  which,  with  a  review  of  Longfellow's  poems,  are  sub- 
joined  to  eke  out  the  statement  as  to  the  merits  of  those  authors. 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE :  By  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.— In 
Two  Parts.    New- York :  Wiley  and  Putnam.     1846. 


WE  have  been  seated  here  the  last  ten  minutes,  pen  in  hand, 
thinking  what  we  can  possibly  say  about  this  book  that  will  not 
be  either  superfluous  or  impertinent. 

Superfluous,  because  the  attractions  of  Hawthorne's  writings 
cannot  fail  of  one  and  the  same  effect  on  all  persons  who  possess 
the  common  sympathies  of  men.  To  all  who  are  still  happy  in 
some  groundwork  of  unperverted  Nature,  the  delicate,  simple, 
human  tenderness,  unsought,  unbought  and  therefore  precious 
morality,  the  tranquil  elegance  and  playfulness,  the  humour  which 
never  breaks  the  impression  of  sweetness  and  dignity,  do  an  in 
evitable  message  which  requires  no  comment  of  the  critic  to  make 
its  meaning  clear.  Impertinent,  because  the  influence  of  this 
mind,  like  that  of  some  loveliest  aspects  of  Nature,  is  to  induce 
silence  from  a  feeling  of  repose.  We  do  not  think  of  any  thing 
particularly  worth  saying  about  this  that  has  been  so  fitly  and 
pleasantly  said. 

Yet  it  seems  unfit  that  we,  in  our  office  of  chronicler  of  intel 
lectual  advents  and  apparitions,  should  omit  to  render  open  and 
audible  honour  to  one  whom  we  have  long  delighted  to  honour. 
It  may  be,  too,  that  this  slight  notice  of  ours  may  awaken  the  at- 
tention  of  those  distant  or  busy  who  might  not  otherwise  search 
for  the  volume,  which  comes  betimes  in  the  leafy  month  of  June. 

So  we  will  give  a  slight  account  of  it,  even  if  we  cannot  say 


144  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

much  of  value.  Though  Hawthorne  has  now  a  standard  reputation, 
both  for  the  qualities  we  have  mentioned  arid  the  beauty  of  the 
style  in  which  they  are  embodied,  yet  we  believe  he  has  not  been 
very  widely  read.  This  is  only  because  his  works  have  not  been 
published  in  the  way  to  ensure  extensive  circulation  in  this  new, 
hurrying  world  of  ours.  The  immense  extent  of  country  over 
which  the  reading  (still  very  small  in  proportion  to  the  mere 
working)  community  is  scattered,  the  rushing  and  pushing  of  our 
life  at  this  electrical  stage  of  development,  leave  no  work  a  chance 
to  be  speedily  and  largely  known  that  is  not  trumpeted  and  pla 
carded.  And,  odious  as  are  the  features  of  a  forced  and  artificial 
circulation,  it  must  be  considered  that  it  does  no  harm  in  the  end. 
Bad  books  will  not  be  read  if  they  are  bought  instead  of  good, 
while  the  good  have  an  abiding  life  in  the  log-cabin  settlements 
and  Red  River  steamboat  landings,  to  which  they  would  in  no 
other  way  penetrate.  Under  the  auspices  of  Wiley  and  Putnam, 
Hawthorne  will  have  a  chance  to  collect  all  his  own  public  about 
him,  and  that  be  felt  as  a  presence  which  before  was  only  a 
rumor. 

The  volume  before  us  shares  the  charms  of  Hawthorne's  ear 
lier  tales ;  the  only  difference  being  that  his  range  of  subjects  is 
a  little  wider.  There  is  the  same  gentle  and  sincere  companion 
ship  with  Nature,  the  same  delicate  but  fearless  scrutiny  of  the 
secrets  of  the  heart,  the  same  serene  independence  of  petty  and 
artificial  restrictions,  whether  on  opinions  or  conduct,  the  same 
familiar,  yet  pensive  sense  of  the  spiritual  or  demoniacal  influen 
ces  that  haunt  the  palpable  life  and  common  walks  of  men,  not 
by  many  apprehended  except  in  results.  We  have  here  to  re 
gret  that  Hawthorne,  at  this  stage  of  his  mind's  life,  lays  no  more 
decisive  hand  upon  the  apparition — brings  it  no  nearer  than  in 
former  days.  We  had  hoped  that  we  should  see,  no  more  as  in 
a  glass  darkly,  but  face  to  face.  Still,  still  brood  over  his  page 
the  genius  of  revery  and  the  nonchalance  of  Nature,  rather  than 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  145 

the  ardent  earnestness  of  the  human  soul  which  feels  itself  born 
not  only  to  see  and  disclose,  but  to  understand  and  interpret  such 
things.  Hawthorne  intimates  and  suggests,  but  he  does  not  lay 
bare  the  mysteries  of  our  being. 

The  introduction  to  the  "  Mosses,"  in  which  the  old  manse,  its 
inhabitants  and  visitants  are  portrayed,  is  written  with  even  more 
than  his  usual  charm  of  placid  grace  and  many  strokes  of  his  ad 
mirable  good  sense.  Those  who  are  not,  like  ourselves,  familiar 
with  the  scene  and  its  denizens,  will  still  perceive  how  true  that 
picture  must  be  ;  those  of  us  who  are  thus  familiar  will  best 
know  how  to  prize  the  record  of  objects  and  influences  unique  in 
our  country  and  time. 

"The  Birth  Mark"  and  "Rapaccini's  Daughter,"  embody 
truths  of  profound  importance  in  shapes  of  aerial  elegance.  In 
these,  as  here  and  there  in  all  these  pieces,  shines  the  loveliest 
ideal  of  love,  and  the  beauty  of  feminine  purity  (by  which  we 
mean  no  mere  acts  or  abstinences,  but  perfect  single  truth  felt  and 
done  in  gentleness)  which  is  its  root. 

"  The  Celestial  Railroad,"  for  its  wit,  wisdom,  and  the  grace 
ful  adroitness  with  which  the  natural  and  material  objects  are  in 
terwoven  with  the  allegories,  has  already  won  its  meed  of  admi 
ration.  "  Fire-worship"  is  a  most  charming  essay  for  its  domes 
tic  sweetness  and  thoughtful  life.  "  Goodman  Brown"  is  one  of 
those  disclosures  we  have  spoken  of,  of  the  secrets  of  the  breast. 
Who  has  not  known  such  a  trial  that  is  capable  indeed  of  sincere 
aspiration  toward  that  only  good,  that  infinite  essence,  which  men 
call  God.  Who  has  not  known  the  hour  when  even  that  best  be 
loved  image  cherished  as  the  one  precious  symbol  left,  in  the 
range  of  human  nature,  believed  to  be  still  pure  gold  when  all  the 
rest  have  turned  to  clay,  shows,  in  severe  ordeal,  the  symptoms 
of  alloy.  Oh,  hour  of  anguish,  when  the  old  familiar  faces  grow 
dark  and  dim  in  the  lurid  light — when  the  gods  of  the  hearth, 
honoured  in  childhood,  adored  in  youth,  crumble,  and  nothing, 
PART.  n.  7 


146  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

nothing  is  left  which  the  daily  earthly  feelings  can  embrace — can 
cherish  with  unbroken  faith  !  Yet  some  survive  that  trial  more 
happily  than  young  Goodman  Brown.  They  are  those  who  have 
not  sought  it — have  never  of  their  own  accord  walked  forth  with 
the  Tempter  into  the  dim  shades  of  Doubt.  Mrs.  Bull-Frog  is  an 
excellent  humourous  picture  of  what  is  called  to  be  "  content  at 
last  with  substantial  realities  ! !"  The  "  Artist  of  the  Beautiful" 
presents  in  a  form  that  is,  indeed,  beautiful,  the  opposite  view  as 
to  what  are  the  substantial  realities  of  life.  Let  each  man  choose 
between  them  according  to  his  kind.  Had  Hawthorne  written 
"  Roger  Malvin's  Burial"  alone,  we  should  be  pervaded  with  the 
sense  of  the  poetry  and  religion  of  his  soul. 

As  a  critic,  the  style  of  Hawthorne,  faithful  to  his  mind,  shows 
repose,  a  great  reserve  of  strength,  a  slow  secure  movement, 
Though  a  very  refined,  he  is  also  a  very  clear  writer,  showing, 
as  we  said  before,  a  placid  grace,  and  an  indolent  command  of 
language. 

And  now,  beside  the  full,  calm  yet  romantic  stream  of  his  mind, 
we  will  rest.  It  has  refreshment  for  the  weary,  islets  of  fascina 
tion  no  less  than  dark  recesses  and  shadows  for  the  imaginative, 
pure  reflections  for  the  pure  of  heart  and  eye,  and  like  the  Con 
cord  he  so  well  describes,  many  exquisite  lilies  for  him  who 
knows  how  to  get  at  them. 


ORMOND  ;  OR,  THE  SECRET  WITNESS. 

WIELAND;  OR,  THE  TRANSFORMATION.     By  CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 
Library  of  Standard  Romance.     W.  Taylor  &  Co.,  2  Astor  House. 

WE  rejoice  to  see  these  reprints  of  Brown's  novels,  as  we  have 
long  been  ashamed  that  one  who  ought  to  be  the  pride  of  the 
country,  and  who  is,  in  the  higher  qualities  of  the  mind,  so  far  in 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  147 

advance  of  our  other  novelists,  should  have  become  almost  in 
accessible  to  the  public. 

It  has  been  the  custom  to  liken  Brown  to  Godwin.  But  there 
was  no  imitation,  no  second-hand  in  the  matter.  They  were 
congenial  natures,  and  whichever  had  come  first  might  have  lent 
an  impulse  to  the  other.  Either  mind  might  have  been  conscious 
of  the  possession  of  that  peculiar  vein  of  ore  without  thinking  of 
working  it  for  the  mint  of  the  world,  till  the  other,  led  by  acci 
dent,  or  overflow  of  feeling,  showed  him  how  easy  it  was  to  put 
the  reveries  of  his  solitary  hours  into  words  and  upon  paper  for 
the  benefit  of  his  fellow  men. 

"  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is." 

Such  a  man  as  Brown  or  Godwin  has  a  right  to  say  that.  It 
is  no  scanty,  turbid  rill,  requiring  to  be  daily  fed  from  a  thousand 
others  or  from  the  clouds  !  Its  plenteous  source  rushes  from  a 
high  mountain  between  bulwarks  of  stone.  Its  course,  even  and 
full,  keeps  ever  green  its  banks,  and  affords  the  means  of  life  and 
joy  to  a  million  gliding  shapes,  that  fill  its  deep  waters,  and 
twinkle  above  its  golden  sands. 

Life  and  Joy  !  Yes,  Joy  !  These  two  have  been  called  the 
dark  masters,  because  they  disclose  the  twilight  recesses  of  the 
human  heart.  Yet  their  gravest  page  is  joy  compared  with  the 
mixed,  shallow,  uncertain  pleasures  of  vulgar  minds.  Joy  !  be 
cause  they  were  all  alive  and  fulfilled  the  purposes  of  being.  No 
sham,  no  imitation,  no  convention  deformed  or  veiled  their  native 
lineaments,  checked  the  use  of  their  natural  force.  All  alive 
themselves,  they  understood  that  there  is  no  joy  without  truth,  no 
perception  of  joy  without  real  life.  Unlike  most  men,  existence 
was  to  them  not  a  tissue  of  words  and  seemings,  but  a  substantial 
Dossession. 

Born  Hegelians,  without  the  pretensions  of  science,  they  sought 
God  in  their  own  consciousness,  and  found  him.  The  heart, 


148  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

because  it  saw  itself  so  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made,  did  not 
disown  its  Maker.  With  the  highest  idea  of  the  dignity,  power 
and  beauty  of  which  human  nature  is  capable,  they  had  courage 
to  see  by  what  an  oblique  course  it  proceeds,  yet  never  lose  faith 
that  it  would  reach  its  destined  aim.  Thus  their  darkest  dis 
closures  are  not  hobgoblin  shows,  but  precious  revelations. 

Brown  is  great  as  ever  human  writer  was  in  showing  the  self- 
sustaining  force  of  which  a  lonely  mind  is  capable.  He  takes 
one  person,  makes  him  brood  like  the  bee,  and  extract  from  the 
common  life  before  him  all  its  sweetness,  its  bitterness,  and  its 
nourishment. 

We  say  makes  him,  but  it  increases  our  own  interest  in  Brown 
that,  a  prophet  in  this  respect  of  a  better  era,  he  has  usually 
placed  this  thinking  royal  mind  in  the  body  of  a  woman.  This 
personage  too  is  always  feminine,  both  in  her  character  and 
circumstances,  but  a  conclusive  proof  that  the  term  feminine  is 
not  a  synonym  for  weak.  Constantia,  Clara  Wieland,  have  loving 
hearts,  graceful  and  plastic  natures,  but  they  have  also  noble 
thinking  minds,  full  of  resource,  constancy,  courage.  The 
Marguerite  of  Godwin,  no  less,  is  all  refinement,  and  the  purest 
tenderness,  but  she  is  also  the  soul  of  honour,  capable  of  deep 
discernment  and  of  acting  in  conformity  with  the  inferences  she 
draws.  The  man  of  Brown  and  Godwin  has  not  eaten  of  the  fruit 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge  and  been  driven  to  sustain  himself  by 
sweat  of  his  brow  for  nothing,  but  has  learned  the  structure  and 
laws  of  things,  and  become  a  being,  rational,  benignant,  various, 
and  desirous  of  supplying  the  loss  of  innocence  by  the  attainment 
of  virtue.  So  his  woman  need  not  be  quite  so  weak  as  Eve, 
the  slave  of  feeling  or  of  flattery :  she  also  has  learned  to  guide 
her  helm  amid  the  storm  across  the  troubled  waters. 

The  horrors  which  mysteriously  beset  these  persons,  and 
against  which,  so  far  as  outward  facts  go,  they  often  strive  in 
vain,  are  but  a  representation  of  those  powers  permitted  to  work 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  :( 


in  the  same  way  throughout  the  affairs  of  this  world.  Their  de 
moniacal  attributes  only  represent  a  morbid  state  of  tfce  "intellect 
gone  to  excess  from  want  of  balance  with  the  other  powers. 
There  is  an  intellectual  as  well  as  a  physical  drunkenness,  and 
which  no  less  impels  to  crime.  Carwin,  urged  on  to  use  his  ven 
triloquism,  till  the  presence  of  such  a  strange  agent  wakened  the 
seeds  of  fanaticism  in  the  breast  of  Wieland,  is  in  a  state  no 
more  foreign  to  nature  than  that  of  the  wretch  executed  last 
week,  who  felt  himself  drawn  as  by  a  spell  to  murder  his  victim 
because  he  had  thought  of  her  money  and  the  pleasures  it  might 
bring  him,  till  the  feeling  possessed  his  brain  that  hurls  the  game 
ster  to  ruin.  The  victims  of  such  agency  are  like  the  soldier  of 
the  Rio  Grande,  who,  both  legs  shot  off  and  his  life-blood  rushing 
out  with  every  pulse,  replied  serenely  to  his  pitying  comrades 
that  "  he  had  now  that  for  which  the  soldier  enlisted."  The  end 
of  the  drama  is  not  in  this  world,  and  the  fiction  which  rounds  off 
the  whole  to  harmony  and  felicity  before  the  curtain  falls,  sins 
against  truth,  and  deludes  the  reader.  The  Nelsons  of  the  hu 
man  race  are  all  the  more  exposed  to  the  assaults  of  fate  that  they 
are  decorated  with  the  badges  of  well-earned  glory.  Who,  but 
feels  as  they  fall  in  death,  or  rise  again  to  a  mutilated  existence, 
that  the  end  is  not  yet  ?  Who,  that  thinks,  but  must  feel  that  the 
recompense  is,  where  Brown  places  it,  in  the  accumulation  of 
mental  treasure,  in  the  severe  assay  by  fire  that  leaves  the  gold 
pure  to  be  used  sometime — somewhere. 

Brown,  man  of  the  brooding  eye,  the  teeming  brain,  the  deep 
and  fervent  heart ;  if  thy  country  prize  thee  not  and  has  almost 
lost  thee  out  of  sight,  it  is  that  her  heart  is  made  shallow  and 
cold,  her  eye  dim,  by  the  pomp  of  circumstance,  the  love  of  gross 
outward  gain.  She  cannot  long  continue  thus,  for  it  takes  a  great 
deal  of  soul  to  keep  a  huge  body  from  disease  and  dissolution. 
As  there  is  more  soul  thou  wilt  be  more  sought,  and  many  will 
yet  sit  down  with  thy  Constantia  to  the  meal  and  water  ru  which 


150  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

she  sustained  her  full  and  thoughtful  existence,  who  could  not  en 
dure  the  ennui  of  aldermanic  dinners,  or  find  any  relish  in  the 
imiiation  of  French  cookery.  To-day  many  will  read  the  words, 
and  some  have  a  cup  large  enough  to  receive  the  spirit,  before  it 
is  lost  in  the  sand  on  which  their  feet  are  planted. 

Brown's  high  standard  of  the  delights  of  intellectual  commu 
nion  and  of  friendship  correspond  with  the  fondest  hopes  of  early 
days.  But  in  the  relations  of  real  life,  at  present,  there  is  rarely 
more  than  one  of  the  parties  ready  for  such  intercourse  as  he  de 
scribes.  On  the  one  side  there  will  be  dryness,  want  of  percep 
tion  or  variety,  a  stupidity  unable  to  appreciate  life's  richest  boon 
when  offered  to  its  grasp,  and  the  finer  nature  is  doomed  to  re 
trace  its  steps,  unhappy  as  those  who  having  force  to  raise  a  spirit 
cannot  retain  or  make  it  substantial,  and  stretch  out  their  arms 
only  to  bring  them  back  empty  to  the  breast. 


POEMS.     By  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW;  with  Illustrations  by 
D.  HUNTINGTON.     Philadelphia ;  Carey  &  Hart,  Chesnut-st.   1845. 

POETRY  is  not  a  superhuman  or  supernatural  gift.  It  is,  on 
the  contrary,  the  fullest  and  therefore  most  completely  natural 
expression  of  what  is  human.  It  is  that  of  which  the  rudiments  lie 
in  every  human  breast,  but  developed  to  a  more  complete  existence 
than  the  obstructions  of  daily  life  permit,  clothed  in  an  adequate 
form,  domesticated  in  nature  by  the  use  of  apt  images,  the  per 
ception  of  grand  analogies,  and  set  to  the  music  of  the  spheres 
for  the  delight  of  all  who  have  ears  to  hear.  We  have  uttered 
these  remarks,  which  may,  to  many  of  our  readers,  seem  truisms, 
for  the  sake  of  showing  that  our  definition  of  poetry  is  large 
enough  to  include  all  kinds  of  excellence.  It  includes  not  only 
the  great  bards,  but  the  humblest  minstrels.  The  great  bards 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  151 

bring  to  light  the  more  concealed  treasures,  gems  which  centuries 
have  been  employed  in  forming  and  which  it  is  their  office  to  re 
veal,  polish,  and  set  for  the  royal  purposes  of  man  j  the  wander 
ing  minstrel  with  his  lighter  but  beautiful  office  calls  the  attention 
of  men  to  the  meaning  of  the  flowers,  which  also  is  hidden  from 
the  careless  eye,  though  they  have  grown  and  bloomed  in  full 
sight  of  all  who  chose  to  look.  All  the  poets  are  the  priests  of 
Nature,  though  the  greatest  are  also  the  prophets  of  the  manhood 
of  man.  For,  when  fully  grown,  the  life  of  man  must  be  all 
poetry  ;  each  of  his  thoughts  will  be  a  key  to  the  treasures  of 
the  universe  ;  each  of  his  acts  a  revelation  of  beauty,  his  lan 
guage  will  be  music,  and  his  habitual  presence  will  overflow 
with  more  energy  and  inspire  with  a  nobler  rapture  than  do  the 
fullest  strains  of  lyric  poetry  now. 

Meanwhile  we  need  poets  ;  men  more  awakened  to  the  won 
ders  of  life,  and  gifted  more  or  less  with  a  power  to  express  what 
they  see,  and  to  all  who  possess,  in  any  degree,  those  requisites 
we  offer  and  we  owe  welcome  and  tribute,  whether  the  place  of 
their  song  be  in  the  Pantheon,  from  which  issue  the  grand  de 
crees  of  immortal  thought,  or  by  the  fireside,  where  hearts  need 
kindling  and  eyes  need  clarifying  by  occasional  drops  of  nectar 
in  their  tea. 

But  this — this  alone  we  claim,  and  can  welcome  none  who 
cannot  present  this  title  to  our  hearing  ;  that  the  vision  be  genu 
ine,  the  expression  spontaneous.  No  imposition  upon  our  young 
fellow  citizens  of  pinchbeck  for  gold  !  they  must  have  the  true 
article,  and  pay  the  due  intellectual  price,  or  they  will  wake 
from  a  life-long  dream  of  folly  to  find  themselves  beggars. 

And  never  was  a  time  when  satirists  were  more  needed  to 
scourge  from  Parnassus  the  magpies  who  are  devouring  the  food 
scattered  there  for  the  singing  birds.  There  will  always  be  a 
good  deal  of  mock  poetry  in  the  market  with  the  genuine  ;  it 
grows  up  naturally  as  tares  among  the  wheat,  and,  while  there 


152  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


is  a  fair  proportion  preserved,  we  abstain  from  severe  weeding 
lest  the  two  come  up  together ;  but  when  the  tares  have  almost 
usurped  the  field,  it  is  time  to  begin  and  see  if  the  field  cannot 
be  freed  from  them  and  made  ready  for  a  new  seed-time. 

The  rules  of  versification  are  now  understood  and  used  by 
those  who  have  never  entered  into  that  soul  from  which  metres 
grow  as  acorns  from  the  oak,  shapes  as  characteristic  of  the 
parent  tree,  containing  in  like  manner  germs  of  limitless  life  for 
the  future.  And  as  to  the  substance  of  these  jingling  rhymes, 
and  dragging,  stumbling  rhythms,  we  might  tell  of  bombast,  or 
still  worse,  an  affected  simplicity,  sickly  sentiment,  or  borrowed 
dignity ;  but  it  is  sufficient  to  comprise  all  in  this  one  censure. 
The  writers  did  not  write  because  they  felt  obliged  to  relieve 
themselves  of  the  swelling  thought  within,  but  as  an  elegant 
exercise  which  may  win  them  rank  and  reputation  above  the 
crowd.  Their  lamp  is  not  lit  by  the  sacred  and  inevitable  light 
ning  from  above,  but  carefully  fed  by  their  own  will  to  be  seen 
of  men. 

There  are  very  few  now  rhyming  in  England,  not  obnoxious 
to  this  censure,  still  fewer  in  our  America.  For  such  no  laurel 
blooms.  May  the  friendly  poppy  soon  crown  them  and  grant  us 
stillness  to  hear  the  silver  tones  of  genuine  music,  for,  if  such 
there  be,  they  are  at  present  almost  stifled  by  these  fifes  and 
gongs. 

Yet  there  is  a  middle  class,  composed  of  men  of  little  original 
poetic  power,  but  of  much  poetic  taste  and  sensibility,  whom  we 
would  not  wish  to  have  silenced.  They  do  no  harm,  but  much 
good,  (if  only  their  minds  are  not  confounded  with  those  of  a  higher 
class,)  by  educating  in  others  the  faculties  dominant  in  them 
selves.  In  this  class  we  place  the  writer  at  present  before  us. 

We  must  confess  to  a  coolness  towards  Mr.  Longfellow,  in 
consequence  of  the  exaggerated  praises  that  have  been  bestowed 
upon  him.  When  we  see  a  oerson  of  moderate  powers  receive 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  153 

honours  which  should  be  reserved  for  the  highest,  \ve  feel  some 
what  like  assailing  him  and  taking  from  him  the  crown  which 
should  be  reserved  for  grander  brows.  And  yet  this  is,  perhaps 
ungenerous.  It  may  be  that  the  management  of  publishers,  the 
hyperbole  of  paid  or  undiscerning  reviewers,  or  some  accidental 
cause  which  gives  a  temporary  interest  to  productions  beyond 
what  they  would  permanently  command,  have  raised  such  an  one 
to  a  place  as  much  above  his  wishes  as  his  claims,  and  which  he 
would  rejoice,  with  honourable  modesty,  to  vacate  at  the  approach 
of  one  worthier.  We  the  more  readily  believe  this  of  Mr.  Long 
fellow,  as  one  so  sensible  to  the  beauties  of  other  writers  and  so 
largely  indebted  to  them,  must  know  his  own  comparative  rank 
better  than  his  readers  have  known  it  for  him. 

And  yet  so  much  adulation  is  dangerous.  Mr.  Longfellow,  so 
lauded  on  all  hands — now  able  to  collect  his  poems  which  have 
circulated  so  widely  in  previous  editions,  and  been  paid  for  so 
handsomely  by  the  handsomest  annuals,  in  this  beautiful  volume, 
illustrated  by  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  our  younger  artists 
— has  found  a  flatterer  in  that  very  artist.  The  portrait  which 
adorns  this  volume  is  not  merely  flattered  or  idealized,  but  there  is 
an  attempt  at  adorning  it  by  expression  thrown  into  the  eyes  with 
just  that  which  the  original  does  not  possess,  whether  in  face  or 
mind.  We  have  often  seen  faces  whose  usually  coarse  and 
heavy  lineaments  were  harmonized  at  times  into  beauty  by  the 
light  that  rises  from  the  soul  into  the  eyes.  The  intention  Na 
ture  had  with  regard  to  the  face  and  its  wearer,  usually  eclipsed 
beneath  bad  habits  or  a  bad  education,  is  then  disclosed,  and  we 
see  what  hopes  Death  has  in  store  for  that  soul.  But  here  the 
enthusiasm  thrown  into  the  eyes  only  makes  the  rest  of  the  face 
look  more  weak,  and  the  idea  suggested  is  the  anomalous  one  of 
a  dandy  Pindar. 

Such  is  not  the  case  with  Mr.  Longfellow  himself.  He  is 
never  a  Pindar,  though  he  is  sometimes  a  dandy  even  in  the 


154  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

clean  and  elegantly  ornamented  streets  and  trim  gardens  of  his 
verse.  But  he  is  still  more  a  man  of  cultivated  taste,  delicate 
though  not  deep  feeling,  and  some,  though  not  much,  poetic  force. 

Mr.  Longfellow  has  been  accused  of  plagiarism.  We  have 
been  surprised  that  any  one  should  have  been  anxious  to  fasten 
special  charges  of  this  kind  upon  him,  when  we  had  supposed  it 
so  obvious  that  the  greater  part  of  his  menial  stores  were  derived 
from  the  works  of  others.  He  has  no  style  of  his  own  growing 
out  of  his  own  experiences  and  observations  of  nature.  Nature 
with  him,  whether  human  or  external,  is  always  seent  hrough  the 
windows  of  literature.  There  are  in  his  poems  sweet  and  tender 
passages  descriptive  of  his  personal  feelings,  but  very  few  show- 
ing  him  as  an  observer,  at  first  hand,  of  the  passions  within,  or 
the  landscape  without. 

This  want  of  the  free  breath  of  nature,  this  perpetual  borrow 
ing  of  imagery,  this  excessive,  because  superficial,  culture  which 
he  has  derived  from  an  acquaintance  with  the  elegant  literature 
of  many  nations  and  men  out  of  proportion  to  the  experience  of 
life  within  himself,  prevent  Mr.  Longfellow's  verses  from  ever 
being  a  true  refreshment  to  ourselves.  He  says  in  one  of  his 
most  graceful  verses  : 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there, 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

Now  this  is  just  what  we  cannot  get  from  Mr.  Longfellow.  No 
solitude  of  the  mind  reveals  to  us  the  deep  cisterns. 

Let  us  take,  for  example  of  what  we  do  not  like,  one  of  his 
worst  pieces,  the  Prelude  to  the  Voices  of  the  Night — 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 
I  lay  upon  the  ground ; 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  155 

His  hoary  arms  uplifted  be, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee 
With  one  continuous  sound. 

What  an  unpleasant  mixture  of  images  !  Such  never  rose  in 
a  man's  mind,  as  he  lay  on  the  ground  and  looked  up  to  the  tree 
above  him.  The  true  poetry  for  this  stanza  would  be  to  give  us 
an  image  of  what  was  in  the  writer's  mind  as  he  lay  there  and 
looked  up.  But  this  idea  of  the  leaves  clapping  their  little  hands 
with  glee  is  taken  out  of  some  book ;  or,  at  any  rate,  is  a  book 
thought,  and  not  one  that  came  in  the  place,  and  jars  entirely  with 
what  is  said  of  the  tree  uplifting  its  hoary  arms.  Then  take  this 
other  stanza  from  a  man  whose  mind  should  have  grown  up  in 
familiarity  with  the  American  genius  loci. 

Therefore  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 

The  Spring  clothed  like  a  bride, 
When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 
And  bishop's  caps  have  golden  rings, 
Musing  upon  many  things, 

I  sought  the  woodlands  wide. 

Musing  upon  many  things — ay  !  and  upon  many  books  too,  or 
we  should  have  nothing  of  Pentecost  or  bishop's  caps  with  their 
golden  rings.  For  ourselves,  we  have  not  the  least  idea  what 
bishop's  caps  are  ; — are  they  flowers  ? — or  what  ?  Truly,  the 
schoolmaster  was  abroad  in  the  woodlands  that  day  !  As  to  the 
conceit  of  the  wings  of  the  buds,  it  is  a  false  image,  because  one 
that  cannot  be  carried  out.  Such  will  not  be  found  in  the  poems 
of  poets  ;  with  such  the  imagination  is  all  compact,  and  their 
works  are  not  dead  mosaics,  with  substance  inserted  merely  be 
cause  pretty,  but  living  growths,  homogeneous  and  satisfactory 
throughout. 

Such  instances  could  be  adduced  every  where  throughout  the 
poems,  depriving  us  of  any  clear  pleasure  from  any  one  piece, 
and  placing  his  poems  beside  such  as  those  of  Bryant  in  the  same 


156  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND    ART. 

light  as  that  of  the  prettiest  made  shell,  beside  those  whose  every 
line  and  hue  tells  a  history  of  the  action  of  winds  and  waves  and 
the  secrets  of  one  class  of  organizations. 

But,  do  we,  therefore  esteem  Mr.  Longfellow  a  wilful  or  con 
scious  plagiarist  ?  By  no  means.  It  is  his  misfortune  that  other 
men's  thoughts  are  so  continually  in  his  head  as  to  overshadow 
his  own.  The  order  of  fine  development  is  for  the  mind  the  same 
as  the  body,  to  take  in  just  so  much  food  as  will  sustain  it  in  its 
exercise  and  assimilate  with  its  growth.  If  it  is  so  assimilated — 
if  it  becomes  a  part  of  the  skin,  hair  and  eyes  of  the  man,  it  is  his 
own,  no  matter  whether  he  pick  it  up  in  the  woods,  or  borrow 
from  the  dish  of  a  fellow  man,  or  receive  it  in  the  form  of  manna 
direct  from  Heaven.  "  Do  you  ask  the  genius,53  said  Goethe,  "  to 
give  an  account  of  what  he  has  taken  from  others.  As  well 
demand  of  the  hero  an  account  of  the  beeves  and  loaves  which 
have  nourished  him  to  such  martial  stature." 

But  Mr.  Longfellow  presents  us,  not  with  a  new  product  in 
which  all  the  old  varieties  are  melted  into  a  fresh  form,  but  rather 
with  a  tastefully  arranged  Museum,  between  whose  glass  cases 
are  interspersed  neatly  potted  rose  trees,  geraniums  and  hyacinths, 
grown  by  himself  with  aid  of  in-door  heat.  Still  we  must  acquit 
him  of  being  a  willing  or  conscious  plagiarist.  Some  objects  in 
the  collection  are  his  own  ;  as  to  the  rest,  he  has  the  merit  of 
appreciation,  and  a  re-arrangement,  not  always  judicious,  but  the 
result  of  feeling  on  his  part. 

Such  works  as  Mr.  Longfellow's  we  consider  injurious  only  if 
allowed  to  usurp  the  place  of  better  things.  The  reason  of  his 
being  overrated  here,  is  because  through  his  works  breathes  the 
air  of  other  lands,  with  whose  products  the  public  at  large  is  but 
little  acquainted.  He  will  do  his  office,  and  a  desirable  one,  of 
promoting  a  taste  for  the  literature  of  these  lands  before  his 
readers  are  aware  of  it.  As  a  translator  he  shows  the  same 
qualities  as  in  his  own  writings  ;  what  is  forcible  and  compact 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE.  157 

he  does  not  render  adequately  ;  grace  and  sentiment  he  appre 
ciates  and  reproduces.  Twenty  years  hence,  when  he  stands  upon 
his  own  merits,  he  will  rank  as  a  writer  of  elegant,  if  not  always 
accurate  taste,  of  great  imitative  power,  and  occasional  felicity 
in  an  original  way,  where  his  feelings  are  really  stirred.  He 
has  touched  no  subject  where  he  has  not  done  somewhat  that  is 
pleasing,  though  also  his  poems  are  much  marred  by  ambitious 
failings.  As  instances  of  his  best  manner  we  would  mention 
"  The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers,"  "  Lines  to  the  Planet  Mars," 
"  A  Gleam  of  Sunshine,"  and  "  The  Village  Blacksmith."  His 
two  ballads  are  excellent  imitations,  yet  in  them  is  no  spark  of 
fire.  In  "  Nuremberg"  are  charming  passages.  Indeed,  the 
whole  poem  is  one  of  the  happiest  specimens  of  Mr.  L.'s  poetic 
feeling,  taste  and  tact  in  making  up  a  rosary  of  topics  and  images. 
Thinking  it  may  be  less  known  than  most  of  the  poems  we 
will  quote  it.  The  engraving  which  accompanies  it  of  the  rich 
old  architecture  is  a  fine  gloss  on  its  contents. 

NUREMBERG. 

In  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad  meadow  lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg,  the  ancient,  stands. 
Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic — quaint  old  town  of  art  and  song — 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks  that  round  them  throng ; 
Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  Emperors,  rough  and  bold, 
Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time  defying,  centuries  old ; 
And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted  in  their  uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand  through  every  clime. 
In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many  an  iron  band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden,  planted  by  Queen  Cunigunda's  hand. 
On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in  old  heroic  days, 
Sat  the  poet  Melchior,  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's  praise. 
Every  where  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous  world  of  Art — 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture,  standing  in  the  common  mart ; 
And  above  cathedral  doorways,  saints  and  bishops  carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our  own. 
In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined  his  holy  dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from  age  to  age  their  trust  j 


158  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  Pix  of  sculpture  rare, 

Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through  the  painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  Religion,  with  a  simple  reverent  heart, 

Lived  and  laboured  Albert  Durer,  the  Evangelist  of  Art; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with  busy  hand, 

Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the  Better  Land. 

Emigramt  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb-stone  where  he  lies ; 

Dead  he  is  not,  but  departed,  for  the  Artist  never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine  seerns  more  fair, 

That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement — that  he  once  has  breathed  its  air ! 

Through  those  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these  obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 

Walked  of  yore  the  Master-singers,  chanting  rude  poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs  came  they  to  the  friendly  guild, 

Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in  spouts  the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  to  the  mystic  rhyme, 

And  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to  the  anvil's  chime ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes  the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 

In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders — in  the  tissues  of  the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of  the  gentle  craft, 

Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge  folios  sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a  nicely  sanded  floor, 

And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above  the  door ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam  Paschman's  song, 

As  the  old  man  grey  and  dove-like,  with  his  great  beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swarth  mechanic  comes  to  drown  his  cank  and  care, 

Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards  in  the  master's  antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendour,  and  before  my  dreamy  eye 

Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like  a  faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for  thee  the  world's  regard ; 

But  thy  painter,  Albert  Durer,  and  Hans  Sachs,  thy  cobbler  bard. 

Thus,  oh,  Nuremberg  !  a  wanderer  from  a  region  far  away, 

As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang  in  thought  his  careless  lay ; 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a  flow'ret  of  the  soil, 

The  nobility  of  labour,  the  long  pedigree  of  toil. 

This  image  of  the  thought  gathered  like  a  flower  from  the 
crevice  of  the  pavement,  is  truly  natural  and  poetical. 

Here  is  another  image  which  came  into  the  mind  of  the  writer 
as  he  looked  at  the  subject  of  his  verse,  and  which  pleases  accor- 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  159 

dingly.     It  is  from  one  of  the  new  poems,  addressed  to  Driving 
Cloud,  "  chief  of  the  mighty  Omahaws." 

Wrapt  in  thy  scarlet  blanket  I  see  thee  stalk  through  the  city's 
Narrow  and  populous  streets,  as  once  by  the  margin  of  rivers 
Stalked  those  birds  unknown,  that  have  left  us  only  their  foot-prints. 
What,  in  a  few  short  years,  will  remain  of  thy  race  but  the  foot-prints  1 

Here  is  another  very  graceful  and  natural  simile  : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  rain. 

Another — 

I  will  forget  her !     All  dear  recollections, 
Pressed  in  my  heart  like  flowers  within  a  book, 
Shall  be  torn  out  and  scattered  to  the  winds. 

The  drama  from  which  this  is  taken  is  an  elegant  exercise  of 
the  pen,  after  the  fashion  of  the  best  models.  Plans,  figures,  all 
are  academical.  It  is  a  faint  reflex  of  the  actions  and  passions 
of  men,  tame  in  the  conduct  and  lifeless  in  the  characters,  but 
not  heavy,  and  containing  good  meditative  passages. 

And  now  farewell  to  the  handsome  book,  with  its  Preciosos 
and  Preciosas,  its  Vikings  and  knights,  and  cavaliers,  its  flowers 
of  all  climes,  and  wild  flowers  of  none.  We  have  not  wished  to 
depreciate  these  writings  below  their  current  value  more  than 
truth  absolutely  demands.  We  have  not  forgotten  that,  if  a  man 
cannot  himself  sit  at  the  feet  of  the  muse,  it  is  much  if  he  prizes 
those  who  may  ;  it  makes  him  a  teacher  to  the  people.  Neither 
have  we  forgotten  that  Mr.  Longfellow  has  a  genuine  respect  for 
his  pen,  never  writes  carelessly,  nor  when  he  does  not  wish  to, 
nor  for  money  alone.  Nor  are  we  intolerant  to  those  who  prize 
hot-house  bouquets  beyond  all  the  free  beauty  of  nature ;  that 
helps  the  gardener  and  has  its  uses.  But  still  let  us  not  forget — 
Excelsior !  ! 


SWEDENBORGIANISM. 


NOBLE'S  APPEAL  IN  BEHALF  OF  THE  VIEWS  HELD  BY  THE  NEW  (or  Swe- 

denhorgicui)   CHURCH.     Second  edition,   1845.     Boston:   T.   H.   Carter   & 

Co.— Otis  Clapp. 

ESSAYS  BY  THEOPHILUS  PARSONS.     Boston  :  Otis  Clapp,  School-st.  1845. 
THE  CORNER  STONE  OF  THE  NEW  JERUSALEM,  by  B.  F.  BARRETT.     New 

York:  Bartlett  and  Wellford,  Astor  House;  John  Allen,  139  Nassau-street, 

1845. 

THE  claim  to  be  the  New  Church,  or  peculiarly  the  founders 
of  a  New  Jerusalem,  is  like  exclusive  claims  to  the  title  of  Or 
thodox.  We  have  no  sympathy  with  it.  We  believe  that  all 
kinds  of  inspiration  and  forms  of  faith  have  been  made  by  the 
power  that  rules  the  world  to  cooperate  in  the  development  of 
mental  life  with  a  view  to  the  eventual  elucidation  of  truth. 
That  ruling  power  overrules  the  vanity  of  men,  or  just  the  con 
trary  would  ensue.  For  men  love  the  letter  that  killeth  better 
than  the  spirit  that  continually  refreshes  its  immortal  life.  They 
wish  to  compress  truth  into  a  nut-shell  that  it  may  be  grasped  in 
the  hand.  They  wish  to  feel  sure  that  they  and  theirs  hold  it 
all.  In  vain  !  More  incompressible  than  light,  it  flows  forth  anew, 
and,  while  the  preacher  was  finishing  the  sermon  in  which  he 
proclaimed  that  now  the  last  and  greatest  dispensation  had  arrived, 
and  that  all  the  truth  could  henceforward  be  encased  within  the 
walls  of  a  church — it  has  already  sped  its  way  to  unnumbered 
zones,  planted  in  myriad  new-born  souls  the  seeds  of  life,  and 
wakened  in  myriads  more  a  pulse  that  cannot  be  tamed  down  by 
dogma  or  doctrine,  but  must  always  throb  at  each  new  revela 
tion  of  the  glories  of  the  infinite. 


SWEDENBORGIANISM.  161 

Were  there,  indeed,  a  catholic  church  which  should  be  based 
on  a  recognition  of  universal  truths,  simple  as  that  proposed  by 
Jesus,  Love  God  with  all  thy  soul  and  strength,  thy  neighbour  as 
thyself;  such  a  church  would  include  all  sincere  motions  of  the 
spirit,  and  sects  and  opinions  would  no  more  war  with  one  an 
other  than  roses  in  the  garden,  but,  like  them,  all  contentedly 
grace  a  common  soil  and  render  their  tribute  to  one  heaven. 

Then  we  should  hear  no  more  of  the  church,  creed,  or  teacher, 
but  of  a  church,  creed  or  teacher.  Each  man  would  adopt  content 
edly  what  best  answered  his  spiritual  wants,  lovingly  granting 
the  same  liberality  to  others.  Then  the  variety  of  opinions  would 
produce  its  natural  benefit  of  testing  and  animating  each  mind 
in  its  natural  tendency,  without  those  bitter  accompaniments 
that  make  theological  systems  so  repulsive  to  religious  minds. 

Religious  tolerance  will,  probably,  come  last  in  the  progress 
of  civilization,  for,  in  those  interests  which  search  deepest,  the 
weeds  of  prejudice  have  struck  root  deepest,  too.  But  it  will 
come ;  for  we  see  its  practicability  sometimes  proved  in  the  in 
tercourse  between  friends ;  and  so  shall  it  be  between  parties 
and  groups  of  men,  when  intercourse  shall  have  been  placed  on 
the  same  basis  of  mutual  good-will  and  respect  for  one  another's 
rights.  Then  those  ugliest  taints  of  spiritual  arrogance  and 
vanity  shall  begin  to  be  washed  out  of  this  world. 

As  with  all  other  cases,  so  with  this  !  We  believe  in  no  new 
church  par  excellence.  Swedenborgians  are  to  us  those  taught 
of  Swedenborg,  a  great,  a  learned,  a  wise,  a  good  man — also  one 
instructed  by  direct  influx  from  a  higher  sphere,  but  one  of  a 
constellation,  and  needing  the  aid  of  congenial  influences  to  con 
firm  and  illustrate  his. 

That  the  body  of  his  followers  do  not  constitute  a  catholic 
church  would  be  sufficiently  proved  to  us  by  the  fact,  asserted 
by  all  who  come  in  contact  with  them,  that  they  attach  an  ex 
aggerated  importance  to  the  teachings  of  their  master,  which 


162  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

shuts  them  in  a  great  measure  from  the  benefit  of  other  teach 
ings,  and  threatens  to  make  them  bigots,  though  of  such  mild 
strain  as  shows  them  to  be  the  followers  of  one  singularly  mild 
and  magnanimous. 

For  Swedenborg  was  one  who,  though  entirely  open  and  stead 
fast  in  the  maintenance  of  his  pretensions,  knew  how  to  live  with 
kings,  nobles,  clergy,  and  people,  without  being  the  object  of 
persecution  to  any.  They  viewed  with  respect,  if  not  with  con 
fidence,  his  conviction  that  he  was  "  in  fellowship  with  angels.' 
They  knew  the  deep  discipline  and  wide  attainments  of  his 
mind.  They  saw  that  he  forced  his  convictions  on  no  one,  but 
relied  for  their  diffusion  upon  spiritual  laws.  They  saw  that  he 
made  none  but  an  incidental  use  of  his  miraculous  powers,  and 
that  it  was  not.  to  him  a  matter  of  any  consequence  whether 
others  recognized  them  or  not ;  for  he  knew  that  those  whom  truth 
does  not  reach  by  its  spiritual  efficacy  cannot  be  made  to  believe 
by  dint  of  signs  and  wonders. 

Thus  his  life  was,  for  its  steady  growth,  its  soft  majesty,  and 
exhibition  of  a  faith  never  fierce  and  sparkling,  never  dim,  a 
happy  omen  for  the  age.  Thus  gently  and  gradually  may  new 
organizations  of  great  principles  be  effected  now  !  May  it  prove 
that,  at  least  in  the  more  advanced  part  of  the  world,  revolutions 
may  be  effected  without  painful  throes  !  Such  a  life  was  in  corres 
pondence  with  his  system,  which  is  one  of  gradation  and  harmony. 

I  have  used  the  word  system,  and  yet  it  is  not  the  right  one. 
The  works  of  Swedenborg  contain  intimations  of  a  system,  but 
it  is  one  whose  full  development  must  be  coincident  with  the 
perfection  of  all  things.  Some  great  rules  he  proffers,  some 
ways  of  thinking  opens ;  we  have  centre  and  radii,  but  the  cir 
cumference  is  not  closed  in. 

This  is  to  us  the  greatness  of  Swedenborg  and  the  ground  of 
our  pleasure  in  his  works,  that  in  them  we  can  expatiate  freely ; 
there  is  room  enough.  We  can  take  what  does  us  good,  and  de- 


SWEDEN  BORGIANISM.  163 

cline  the  rest :  we  may  delight  in  his  theory  of  forms  or  of  cor- 
respondences,  may  be  aided  in  tracing  the  hidden  meanings  of 
symbols,  or  animated  by  the  poetic  energy  of  his  vision,  without 
being  bound  down  to  things  that  seem  to  us  unimportant.  We 
can  converse  with  him  without  acquiescing  in  the  declaration 
that  all  angels  have,  at  some  time,  been  men,  or  the  like,  which 
seem  to  us  groundless  and  arbitrary.  It  is  not  so  with  his  follow 
ers  ;  they  are  like  the  majority  of  disciples ;  if  you  do  not 
know  the  master  before  knowing  them,  his  true  face  will  be 
hidden  from  you  forever.  Their  minds  being  smaller,  they  lay 
the  chief  stress  on  what  is  least  important  in  his  instructions, 
and  do  not  know  how  to  express  the  best  even  of  what  they  have 
received ;  being  too  mighty  for  them  to  embrace  they  cannot 
reproduce  it,  though  it  acts  upon  their  lives. 

So  it  is  with  all  the  books  at  the  head  of  this  notice.  Noble's 
Appeal  has  been,  we  understand,  a  famous  book  among  the  fol 
lowers  of  Svvedenborg.  We  did  not  find  it  sufficiently  interesting 
to  give  it  a  thorough  reading.  It  is  addressed  to  those  who  object 
to  Svvedenborg  from-  a  low  platform.  It  arrays  arguments  and 
evidences  with  skill,  and  in  a  good  spirit,  and  contains  particu 
lars,  as  to  matters  of  fact,  that  will  interest  those  who  have  not 
previously  met  with  them.  It  quotes  Swedenborg's  letter  to  Mr. 
Hartley,  written  with  such  a  beautiful  dignity,  and  giving  so 
distinct  an  idea  of  the  personal  presence  of  the  writer,  also  the 
letter  of  Kant  with  regard  to  one  of  Swedenborg's  revelations  as 
to  a  matter  of  fact,  (the  fire  at  Stockholm.)  The  letter  has  been 
quoted  a  hundred  times  before,  but  it  always  remains  interesting 
to  see  the  genuine  candour  with  which  a  great  mind  can  treat  one 
so  opposite  to  its  own,  and  pleasant  to  see  how  far  such  an  one  is 
above  the  necessity  felt  by  lesser  minds  of  denying  what  they 
cannot  explain. 

We  have  often  been  asked  what  we  thought  of  these  preten 
sions  in  Svvedenborg.  We  think,  in  the  first  place,  none  can 


164  PAPERS  ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

doubt  his  sincerity,  and  in  few  cases  could  we  have  so  little  rea 
son  to  doubt  the  correctness  of  perception  in  the  seer.  Sweden- 
borg  must  be  seen  by  any  one  acquainted  with  his  mind  to  be  in 
an  extraordinary  degree  above  the  chance  of  self-delusion.  As 
to  the  facts,  the  evidence  which  satisfied  Kant  might  satisfy  most 
people,  one  would  suppose.  As  to  the  power  of  holding  inter 
course  with  spirits  enfranchised  from  our  present  sphere,  we  see 
no  reason  why  it  should  not  exist,  and  do  see  much  reason  why 
it  should  rarely  be  developed,  but  none  why  it  should  not  some 
times.  Those  spirits  are,  we  all  believe,  existent  somewhere, 
somehow,  and  there  seems  to  be  no  good  reason  why  a  person  in 
spiritual  nearness  to  them,  whom  such  intercourse  cannot  agitate, 
or  engross  so  that  he  cannot  walk  steadily  in  his  present  path, 
should  not  enjoy  it,  when  of  use  to  him.  But  it  seems  to  us  that 
the  stress  laid  upon  such  a  fact,  for  or  against,  argues  a  want  of 
faith  in  the  immortality  of  souls.  Why  should  those  who  be 
lieve  in  this  care  so  very  much  whether  one  can  rise  from  the 
dead  to  converse  with  his  friend  !  We  see  that  Swedenborg 
esteemed  it  merely  as  a  condition  of  a  certain  state  of  mind,  a 
great  privilege  as  enlarging  his  means  of  attaining  knowledge 
and  holiness.  For  ourselves,  it  is  not  as  a  seer  of  ghosts,  but  as 
a  seer  of  truths  that  Swedenborg  interests  us. 

But  to  return  to  the  books.  They  show  the  gradual  extension 
of  the  influence  of  Swedenborg,  and  the  nature  of  its  effects.  In 
Mr.  Parsons's  case  they  are  good.  His  mind  seems  to  have  been 
expanded  and  strengthened  by  it.  Parts  of  his  book  we  have 
read  with  pleasure,  and  think  it  should  be  a  popular  one  among 
the  more  thoughtful  portion  of  the  great  reading  public.  As  to 
Mr.  Barrett's  discourse,  the  basis  of  Swedenborgianism  had 
seemed  to  us  broader  than  such  a  corner  stone  would  lead  us  to 
suppose.  Generally,  we  would  say,  read  Swedenborg  himself 
before  you  touch  his  interpreters.  In  him  you  will  find  a  great 
life,  far  sight,  and  a  celestial  spirit.  You  will  be  led  to  think, 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE.  166 

and  great  and  tender  sympathies  be  gratified  in  you.  Then,  if 
you  wish  to  prop  yourself  by  doctrines  taken  from  his  works, 
and  hasten  to  practical  conclusions,  you  can  do  so  for  yourself, 
and  from  Swedenborg  himself  learn  how  to  be  a  Swedenborgian  ; 
but  we  hope  he  may  teach  you  rather  to  become  an  earnest 
student  of  truth  as  he  was,  for  it  is  so,  and  not  by  crying,  "  Lord, 
Lord,"  that  you  can  know  him  or  any  other  great  and  excelling 
mind.  But,  whatever  the  result  be,  read  him  first,  and  then  you 
may  profit  by  comparison  of  your  own  observations  with  those 
of  other  scholars ;  but,  if  you  begin  with  them,  it  is,  even 
more  than  usual,  in  such  cases,  the  blind  leading  the  blind. 
Confucius  had  among  the  host  one  perfect  disciple ;  others 
have  been,  in  some  degree,  thus  favoured,  but  Swedenborg 
had  none  such,  and  he  is  not  far  enough  off  yet  for  the 
common  sense  of  mankind  to  have  marked  out  what  is  of  lead 
ing  importance  in  his  thoughts.  Therefore,  search  for  your 
selves  ;  it  is  a  mighty  maze,  but  not  without  a  plan,  and  the 
report  of  all  guide-books,  thus  far,  is  partial. 


METHODISM  AT  THE  FOUNTAIN. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  WESLEY.  Comprising  a  Review  of  his  Poetry, 
and  Sketches  of  the  Rise  and  Progress  of  Methodism,  with  Notices  of  Con 
temporary  Events  and  Characters.  By  THOMAS  JACKSON.  New- York,  1844. 

THIS  is  a  reprint  of  a  London  work,  although  it  does  not  so  ap 
pear  on  the  title-page.  We  have  lately  read  it  in  connection  with 
another  very  interesting  book,  Clarke's  "  Memoirs  of  the  Wesley 
Family,"  and  have  been  led  to  far  deeper  interest  in  this  great 
stream  of  religious  thought  and  feeling  by  a  nearer  approach  to 
its  fountain-head. 

The  world  at  large  takes  its  impression  of  the  Wesleys  from 
Southey.  A  humbler  historian  has  scarce  a  chance  to  be  heard 
beside  one  so  rich  in  learning  and  talent.  Yet  the  Methodists 
themselves  are  not  satisfied  with  this  account  of  their  revered 
shepherds,  which,  though  fair  in  the  intention,  and  tolerably  fair 
in  the  arrangement  of  facts,  fails  to  convey  the  true  spiritual  sense, 
and  does  not,  to  the  flock,  present  a  picture  of  the  fields  where 
they  were  first  satisfied  with  the  food  of  immortals. 

A  better  likeness,  if  not  so  ably  painted,  may  indeed  be  found 
in  chronicles  written  by  the  disciples  of  these  great  and  excellent 
men,  who,  as  characters  full  of  affection  no  less  than  intellect, 
need  also  to  be  affectionately,  no  less  than  intellectually,  discern- 
ed,  in  order  to  a  true  representation  of  their  deeds  and  their  influ 
ence. 

The  books  we  have  named,  and  others  which  relate  to  the  Wes 
leys,  are  extremely  interesting,  apart  from  a  consideration  of  the 


METHODISM   AT  THE  FOUNTAIN.  167 

men  and  what  their  lives  were  leading  to,  from  the  various  and 
important  documents  they  furnish,  illustrative  of  the  symptoms 
and  obscurer  meanings  of  their  times. 

In  the  account  of  the  family  life  of  the  rectory  of  Epworth, 
where  John  and  Charles  Wesley  passed  their  hoyish  years,  we 
find  a  great  deal  that  is  valuable  condensed.  And  we  look  upon 
the  picture  of  home  and  its  government  with  tenfold  interest,  be 
cause  the  founders  of  the  Methodist  church  inherited,  in  a  straight 
line,  the  gifts  of  the  Spirit  through  their  parentage,  rather  than 
were  taught  by  angels  that  visited  them  now  and  then  unawares, 
or  received  the  mantle  from  some  prophet  who  was  passing  by,  as 
we  more  commonly  find  to  have  been  the  case  in  the  histories  of 
distinguished  men.  This  is  delightful ;  for  we  long  to  see  parent 
and  child  linked  to  one  another  by  natural  piety — kindred  in  mind 
no  less  than  by  blood. 

The  father  of  the  Wesleys  was  worthy  so  to  be  in  this,  that  he 
was  a  fervent  lover  of  the  right,  though  often  narrow  and  hasty 
in  his  conceptions  of  it.  He  was  scarce  less,  however,  by  nature 
a  lover  of  having  his  own  will.  The  same  strong  will  was  tem 
pered  in  the  larger  and  deeper  character  of  his  son  John,  to  that 
energy  and  steadfastness  of  purpose  which  enabled  him  to  carry 
out  a  plan  of  operations  so  extensive  and  exhausting  through  so 
long  a  series  of  years  and  into  extreme  old  age. 

This  wil fulness,  and  the  disposition  to  tyranny  which  attends  it, 
the  senior  Mr.  Wesley  showed  on  the  famous  occasion  when  he 
abandoned  his  wife  because  her  conscience  forbade  her  to  assent 
to  his  prayers  for  the  then  reigning  monarch,  and  was  only  saved 
from  the  consequences  of  his  rash  resolve  by  the  accident  of  King 
William  happening  to  die  shortly  after.  Still  more  cruel,  and  this 
time  fatal,  was  the  conduct  it  induced  in  marrying  one  of  his 
daughters,  against  her  will  and  judgment,  to  a  man  whom  she  did 
not  love,  and  who  proved  to  be  entirely  unworthy  of  her.  The 
sacrifice  of  this  daughter,  the  fairest  and  brightest  of  his  family, 


168  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 


seems  most  strangely  and  wickedly  wilful  ;  and  it  is  impossible 
to  read  the  letter  she  addressed  to  him  on  the  subject  without  great 
indignation  against  him,  and  sadness  to  see  how,  not  long  ago,  the 
habit  of  authority  and  obedience  could  enable  a  man  to  dispense 
with  the  need  and  claim  of  genuine  reverence. 

Yet  he  was,  in  the  main,  good,  and  his  influence  upon  his  chil 
dren  good,  as  he  sincerely  sought,  and  encouraged  them  to  seek, 
the  one  thing  needful.  He  was  a  father  who  would  never  fail 
to  give  noble  advice  in  cases  of  conscience  ;  and  his  veneration 
for  intellect  and  its  culture  was  only  inferior  to  that  he  cherished 
for  piety. 

As  has  been  generally  the  case,  however,  with  superior  men, 
the  better  part,  both  of  inheritance  and  guidance,  came  from  the 
mother.  Mrs.  Susannah  Wesley  was,  as  things  go  in  our  puny 
society,  an  extraordinary  woman,  though,  we  must  believe,  pre 
cisely  what  would  be,  in  a  healthy  and  natural  order,  the  ordinary 
type  of  woman.  She  was  endowed  with  a  large  understanding, 
the  power  of  reasoning  and  the  love  of  truth,  animated  by  warm 
and  generous  affections.  Her  mental  development  began  very 
early,  so  that,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  she  had  made,  and  on 
well-considered  grounds,  a  change  in  her  form  of  theological 
faith.  The  progress  so  early  begun,  did  not,  on  that  account, 
stop  early,  but  was  continued,  and  with  increasing  energy, 
throughout  her  whole  life.  The  manifold  duties  of  a  toilsome 
and  difficult  outward  existence,  (of  which  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  she  was  the  mother  of  nineteen  children,  many  of  whom 
lived  to  grow  up,  the  wife  of  a  poor  man,  and  one  whose  temper 
drew  round  him  many  difficulties)  only  varied  and  furthered  her 
improvement  by  the  manifold  occasions  thus  afforded  for  thought 
and  action.  In  her  prime  she  was  the  teacher  and  cheerful 
companion  of  her  children,  in  declining  years  at  once  their 
revered  monitor  and  willing  pupil.  Indeed,  she  was  one  that 
never  ceased  to  grow  while  she  stayed  upon  this  earth,  nor  to 


METHODISM   AT  THE   FOUNTAIN.  169 

foster  and  sustain  the  growth  of  all  around  her.  Even  the  little 
pedantries  of  her  educational  discipline  did  more  good  than  harm, 
as  they  were  full  of  her  own  individuality.  And  it  would  seem 
to  be  from  the  bias  thus  given  that  her  sons  acquired  the  tendency 
which,  even  in  early  years,  drew  to  them  the  name  of  Methodists. 
How  much  too  may  not  be  inferred  from  the  revival  effected  by 
her  in  her  husband's  parish  during  his  absence,  in  so  beautiful 
and  simple  a  manner !  How  must  impressions  of  that  period 
have  been  stamped  on  the  minds  of  her  children,  sure  to  recur 
and  aid  them  whenever  on  similar  occasions  the  universal  voice 
should  summon  them  to  deviate  from  the  usual  and  prescribed 
course,  and  the  pure  sympathies  awakened  by  their  efforts  be 
the  sole  confirmation  of  their  wisdom  !  How  wisely  and  temper 
ately  she  defends  herself  to  her  husband,  winning  the  assent  even 
of  that  somewhat  narrow  and  arbitrary  mind  !  With  wisdom, 
even  so  tempered  by  a  heart  of  charity  and  forbearance,  did  John 
and  Charles  Wesley  maintain  against  the  world  of  customs  the 
bold  and  original  methods  which  the  deep  emotions  of  their  souls 
dictated  to  them,  and  won  its  assent ;  at  least  we  think  there  is 
no  sect  on  which  the  others  collectively  look  with  as  little  intoler 
ance  as  on  Methodism. 

(It  may  be  remarked  par  parenthese  that  the  biographer,  Mr. 
Jackson,  who  shows  himself,  in  many  ways,  to  be  a  weak  man,  is 
rather  shocked  at  Mrs.  Wesley  on  those  occasions  where  she 
shows  so  much  character.  His  opinions  however,  are  of  no  con 
sequence,  as  he  fairly  lays  before  the  reader  the  letters  and  other 
original  documents  which  enable  him  to  judge  of  this  remark 
able  woman,  and  of  her  children,  several  of  them  no  less  remark- 
able — As  we  shall  not  again  advert  to  Mr.  Jackson,  but  only 
consider  him  as  a  cup  in  which  we  have  received  the  juice  of 
the  Wesleyan  grape,  we  will  mention  here  his  strange  use  of 
the  work  superior  in  ways  such  as  these  :  "  This  book  will  be 

PART  II.  9 


170  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

read  with  superior  interest"  ;  Lady met  him  with  superior 

sympathy,"  &c.) 

The  children  of  the  Epworth  Rectory  were,  almost  without 
exception,  of  more  than  usual  dignity  and  richness  of  mind  and 
character.  They  all  were  aspiring,  and  looked  upon  a  human 
life  chiefly  as  affording  materials  to  fashion  a  temple  for  the  ser 
vice  of  God.  But,  though  alike  in  the  main  purpose  and  ten 
dency,  their  individualities  were  kept  distinct  in  the  most  charming 
freshness.  A  noble  sincerity  and  mutual  respect  marked  all 
their  intercourse,  nor  were  the  weaker  characters  unduly  influ 
enced  by  the  stronger.  In  proportion  to  their  mutual  affection 
and  reverence  was  their  sincerity  and  decision  in  opposing  one 
another,  whenever  necessary  ;  so  that  they  were  friendly  indeed. 
The  same  real  love  which  made  Charles  Wesley  write  on  a 
letter  assailing  John,  "Left  unanswered  by  John  Wesley's 
brother,"  made  himself  the  most  earnest  and  direct  of  critics 
when  he  saw  or  thought  he  saw  any  need  of  criticism  or  moni 
tion. 

The  children  of  this  family  shared,  many  of  them,  the  lyric 
vein,  though  only  in  Charles  did  it  exhibit  itself  with  much 
beauty.  It  is  very  interesting  to  see  the  same  gift  taking  another 
form  in  the  genius  for  Music  of  his  two  sons.  The  record  kept 
by  him  of  the  early  stages  of  development  in  them  is  full  of 
valuable  suggestions,  and  we  hope  some  time  to  make  use  of  them 
in  another  connection.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  how  the  sympathies 
of  the  father  melted  away  the  crust  of  habitual  opinions.  It 
was  far  otherwise  with  the  uncle,  where  the  glow  of  sympathy 
was  less  warm. 

The  life  of  the  two  brothers  was  full  of  poetic  beauty  in  its 
incidents  and  conduct.  The  snatching  of  the  child,  destined  to 
purposes  so  important,  "  as  a  brand  from  the  burning  ;"  their 
college  life  ;  Charles's  unwillingness  1o  be  "  made  a  saint  of  all 
at  once ;"  and  his  subsequent  yielding  to  the  fervour  of  his 


METHODISM  AT  THE  FOUN 


brother's  spirit, — John  Wesley's  refusal  to  bind 
seemed  at  the  time  'a  good  work,  even  for  his  mother^ 
because  the  Spirit  within,  if  it  did  not  positively  forbid,  yet  did 
not  say  "  I  am  ready,"  thus  sacrificing  the  outward  to  the  inward 
duty  with  a  clear  decision  rare  even  in  great  minds, — their  voyage 
to  America,  intercourse  with  the  Moravians  and  Indians, — the 
trials  to  which  their  young  simplicity  and  credulity  there  subjected 
them,  but  from  which  they  were  brought  out  safe  by  obeying  the 
voice  of  Conscience, —their  relations  with  Law,  Bolder  and  Count 
Zinzendorf, — the  manner  of  their  marriages,  their  relations  with 
one  another  and  with  Whitfield, — all  are  narrated  with  candour 
and  fullness,  and  all  afford  subjects  for  much  and  valuable 
thought.  As  the  mind  of  John  Wesley  was  of  stronger  mould 
and  in  advance  of  his  brother's,  difference  of  opinion  sometimes 
arose  between  them,  and  Charles,  full  of  feeling,  protested  in  a 
way  calculated  to  grieve  even  a  noble  friend. — His  conduct  with 
regard  to  his  brother's  marriage  seems  to  have  been  perfectly 
unjustifiable,  and  his  heart  to  have  remained  strangely  untaught 
by  what  he  had  felt  and  borne  at  the  time  of  his  own.  Even 
after  death  his  prejudices  acted  to  prevent  his  mortal  remains 
from  resting  beside  those  of  his  brother.  In  all  those  cases  where 
John  Wesley  found  his  judgment  interfered  with,  his  affections 
disappointed  or  even  deeply  wounded,  as  was  certainly  the  case 
in  the  breaking  off  his  first  engagement,  while  he  felt  the  superior 
largeness  and  clearness  of  his  own  views,  as  he  did  in  exercising 
the  power  of  ordination,  and  when  he  wrote  on  the  disappointment 
of  his  wish  that  the  body  of  his  brother  should  be  interred  in  his 
own  cemetery,  because  it  was  not  regularly  "  consecrated 
earth  ;"  "  That  ground  is  as  holy  as  any  in  England,"  still  the 
heart  of  John  Wesley  was  always  right  and  noble  ;  still  he 
looked  at  the  motives  of  the  friend,  and  could  really  say  and 
wholly  feel  in  the  spirit  of  Christian  love,  "  Be  they  forgiven 
for  they  know  not  what  they  do." 


172  PAPERS   ON   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


This  same  heart  of  Christian  love  was  shown  in  the  division 
that  arose  between  the  brothers  and  Whitfield ;  and  owing  to 
this  it  was  that  division  of  opinion  did  not  destroy  unity  of  spirit, 
design  and  influence  in  the  efforts  of  these  good  men  to  make 
their  fellows  good  also.  "  The  threefold  cord,"  as  they  loved  to 
call  it,  remained  firm  through  life,  and  the  world  saw  in  them 
one  of  the  best  fruits  of  the  religious  spirit,  mutual  reverence  in 
conscientious  difference.  This  rarest  sight  alone  would  have 
given  them  a  claim  to  instruct  the  souls  of  men. 

We  wish  indeed  that  this  spirit  had  been  still  better  understood 
by  them,  and  that,  in  ceasing  to  be  the  pupils  of  William  Law, 
they  had  not  felt  obliged  to  denounce  his  mode  of  viewing  re 
ligious  truth  as  "  poisonous  mysticism."  It  is  human  frailty 
that  requires  to  react,  thus  violently,  against  that  we  have  left 
behind.  The  divine  spirit  teaches  better,  shows  that  the  child 
was  father  of  the  man,  and  that  which  we  were  before  has  pre 
pared  us  to  be  what  we  now  are. 

One  of  the  deepest  thinkers  of  our  time  believes  that  the  ex 
aggerated  importance  which  each  man  and  each  party  attaches  to 
the  aims  and  ways  which  engage  him  or  it,  and  the  far  more 
odious  depreciation  of  all  others,  are  needed  to  give  sufficient 
impetus  and  steadiness  to  their  action.  He  finds  grand  corres 
pondence  in  the  laws  of  matter  with  this  view  of  the  laws  of  mind 
to  illustrate  and  sustain  his  belief.  Yet  the  soul  craves  and 
feels  herself  fit  for  something  better,  a  wisdom  that  shall  look 
upon  the  myriad  ways  in  which  men  seek  their  common  end — the 
development  and  elevation  of  their  natures, — with  calmness,  as 
the  Eternal  does.  For  ourselves,  in  an  age  where  it  is  still  the 
current  fallacy  that  he  who  does  not  attach  this  exaggerated 
importance  to  some  doctrinal  way  of  viewing  spiritual  infinities, 
and  the  peculiar  methods  of  some  sect  of  enforcing  them  in  prac 
tice,  has  no  religion,  we  see  dawning  here  and  there  a  light  that 
predicts  a  better  day — a  day  when  sects  and  parties  shall  be 


METHODISM  AT  THE   FOUNTAIN.  173 

regarded  only  as  schools  of  thought  and  life,  and  while  a  man 
perfers  one  for  his  own  instruction,  he  may  yet  believe  it  is  more 
profitable  for  his  brethren  differently  constituted  to  be  in  others. 
It  will  then  be  seen  that  God  takes  too  good  care  of  his  children 
to  suffer  all  truth  to  be  confined  to  any  one  church  establishment, 
age,  or  constellation  of  minds,  and  it  will  be  not  only  assented  to 
in  words,  but  believed  in  soul,  that  the  Laws  and  Prophets  may 
be  condensed,  as  Jesus  said,  into  this  simple  law,  "  Love  God 
with  all  thy  soul,  thy  fellow-man  as  thyself;"  and  that  he  who 
is  filled  with  this  spirit  and  strives  to  express  it  in  life,  however 
narrow  cut  be  his  clerical  coat,  or  distorting  to  outward  objects, 
no  less  than  disfiguring  to  himself,  his  theological  spectacles,  has 
not  failed  both  to  learn  and  to  do  some  good  in  this  earthly  section 
of  existence.  When  this  much  has  once  been  granted  ;  when  it 
is  seen  that  the  only  true,  the  only  Catholic  Church,  the  Church 
whose  communion,  invisible  to  the  outward  eye,  is  shared  by  all 
spirits  that  seek  earnestly  to  love  God  and  serve  Man,  has  its 
members  in  every  land,  in  every  Church,  in  every  sect ;  and 
that  they  who  have  not  this,  in  whatever  tone  and  form  they  cry 
out,  "  Lord,  Lord,"  have  in  truth  never  known  Him  ;  then  may 
we  hope  for  less  narrowness  and  ignorance  in  the  several  sects, 
also,  for  all  and  each  will  learn  of  one  another,  and  dwelling 
together  in  unity  still  preserve  and  unfold  their  life  in  individual 
distinctness.  Such  a  platform  we  hope  to  see  ascended  by  the 
men  of  this  earth,  of  this  or  the  coming  age.  At  any  rate,  dis 
engagement  from  present  bonds,  must  lead  to  it,  and  thus  we 
trust,  the  Wesleys  have  embraced  William  Law  and  found  that 
his  "  poisonous  mysticism"  had  its  truth  and  its  meaning  also, 
while  he  rejoices  that  their  minds,  severing  from  his.  took  a  dif 
ferent  bias  and  reached  a  different  class  for  which  his  teachings 
were  not  adapted.  And  thus,  passing  from  section  to  section  of 
the  truth,  the  circle  shall  be  filled  at  last,  and  it  shall  be  seen 
that  each  had  need  of  the  other  and  of  all. 


174  PAPERS   ON  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

1  Charles  and  John  Wesley  seemed  to  fulfil  toward  their  great 
family  of  disciples  the  offices  commonly  assigned  to  Woman  and 
Man.  Charles  had  a  narrower,  tamer,  less  reasoning  mind,  but 
great  sweetness,  tenderness,  facility  and  lyric  flow,  "When  suc 
cessful  in  effecting  the  spiritual  good  of  the  most  abject,  his  feel 
ings  rose  to  rapture."  Soft  pity  filled  his  heart,  and  none  seemed 
so  near  to  him  as  the  felon  and  the  malefactor,  because  for  none 
else  was  so  much  to  be  done. 

His  habitual  flow  of  sacred  verse  was  like  the  course  of  a  full 
fed  stream.  In  extreme  old  age,  his  habits  of  composition  are 
thus  pleasingly  described  : 

"He  rode  every  day  (clothed  for  Winter,  even  in  Summer,)  a  little  horse, 
grey  with  age.  When  he  mounted,  if  a  subject  struck  him,  he  proceeded  to  ex 
pand  and  put  it  in  order.  He  would  write  a  hymn  thus  given  him  on  a  card 
(kept  for  that  purpose)  with  his  pencil  in  short  hand.  Not  unfrcquently  he  has 
come  to  the  house  on  the  City  road,  and  hiving  left  the  pony  in  the  garden  in 
front,  he  would  enter,  crying  out  'Pen  and  ink!  pen  and  ink!'  These  being 
supplied,  he  wrote  the  hymn  he  had  been  composing.  When  this  was  done,  he 
would  look  round  on  those  present,  and  salute  them  with  much  kindness,  ask 
after  their  health,  give  out  a  short  hymn,  and  thus  put  all  in  mind  of  eternity. 
He  was  fond  of  that  stanza  upon  these  occasions, 

"  There  all  the  ship's  company  meet,"  &c. 

His  benign  spirit  is,  we  believe,  gratified  now  by  finding  that 
company  larger  than  he  had  dared  to  hope. 

The  mind  of  John  Wesley  was  more  masculine  ;  he  was  more 
of  a  thinker  and  leader.  He  is  spoken  of  as  credulous,  as  hoping 
good  of  men  naturally,  and  able  to  hope  it  again  from  those  that 
had  deceived  him.  This  last  is  weakness  unless  allied  with  wise 
decision  and  force,  generosity  when  it  is  thus  tempered.  To  the 
character  of  John  Wesley  it  imparted  a  persuasive  nobleness, 
and  hallowed  his  earnestness  with  mercy.  He  had  in  a  striking 
degree  another  of  those  balances  between  opposite  forces  which 
mark  the  great  man.  He  kept  himself  open  to  new  inspirations, 
was  bold  in  apprehending  and  quick  in  carrying  them  out.  Yet 


METHODISM  AT  THE  FOUNTAIN.  175 

with  a  resolve  once  taken  he  showed  a  steadiness  of  purpose  be 
yond  what  the  timid  scholars  of  tradition  can  conceive. 

In  looking  at  the  character  of  the  two  men,  and  the  nature  of 
their  doctrine  we  well  understand  why  their  spirit  has  exercised 
so  vast  a  sway,  especially  with  the  poor,  the  unlearned  and  those 
who  had  none  else  to  help  them.  They  had  truth  enough 
and  force  enough  to  uplift  the  burdens  of  an  army  of  poor  pil 
grims  and  send  them  on  their  way  rejoicing.  We  should  delight 
to  string  together,  in  our  own  fashion,  a  rosary  of  thoughts  and 
anecdotes  illustrative  of  their  career  and  its  consequences,  but, 
since  time  and  our  limits  in  newspaper  space  forbid,  cannot  end 
better  than  by  quoting  their  own  verse,  for  they  are  of  that  select 
corps,  "  the  forlorn  hope  of  humanity,"  to  whom  shortcoming  in 
deeds  has  given  no  occasion  to  blush  for  the  lofty  scope  of  their 
words. 

"Who  but  the  Holy  Ghost  can  make 

A  genuine  gospel  minister, 
A  bishop  bold  to  undertake 

Of  precious  souls  the  awful  care  1 
The  Holy  Ghost  alone  can  move 

A  sinner  sinners  to  convert, 
Infuse  the  apostolic  love 

And  bless  him  with  a  pastor's  heart." 


APPENDIX. 


THE    TRAGEDY    OF   WITCHCRAFT. 

As  the  tragedy  of  Witchcraft  has  not  been  published,  nor  is  likely  to  be,  while 
the  dramatic  interests  of  the  country  are  unprotected  by  any  copyright  law,  it 
may  not  be  amiss  to  afford  the  reader  a  further  opportunity  of  passing  his  judg 
ment  on  this  production  by  a  few  extracts,  and  the  publication  of  a  contempo 
rary  comment  on  the  play,  with  a  letter  in  the  Evening  Post,  giving  an  account 
of  its  first  performance. 

"  The  curtain  rises  in  the  new  play  upon  a  scene  in  a  wood,  and  we  are  im 
mediately  introduced  to  the  witch-haunted  atmosphere  of  the  era,  for  the  spirit 
of  that  great  persecution  was  abroad,  as  it  were,  in  the  air,  and  surrounded 
everything  as  a  mysterious  Presence.  The  first  words  between  two  of  the  yeo 
manry  are  tinctured  with  the  popular  superstition.  We  feel  from  the  very  mo- 
ment'that  there  is  ti  general  blight,  a  tendency  to  evil  that  cannot  be  resisted. 
This  is  the  perfection  of  the  Tragic  interest,  a'nd  it  never  leaves  us  through  the 
piece.  It  was  a  time  of  Superstition,  when  the  Prince  of  the  Powers  of  the 
Air  set  up  his  throne  in  Salem,  clung  to  the  skirts  of  the  dark  wood,  hung 
threatening  in  the  blackness  of  the  cloud,  interpreted  his  mysteries  in  the  flight 
of  birds,  hung  out  his  inscriptions  in  the  withered  folds  of  old  women's  faces, 
to  be  read  by  conceited  interpreters  of  Heaven's  law,  and  hypocritical  men  of 
cruelty.  A  fearful  time  that.  In  the  play  all  this  is  felt,  as  the  talk  of  the 
characters  keeps  continually  approaching,  by  a  species  of  fascination,  as  it  were, 
the  fatal  subject.  Day  by  day  it  gathers  strength.  From  distant  regions^!  is 
heard  of  in  the  neighbouring  villages,  and  gradually  approaches,  like  some  fell 
disease,  closing  in  upon  the  life — the  devoted  town  of  Salem,  and  within  that 
town  of  Salem,  at  its  very  heart,  the  lives  and  persons  of  a  man  and  woman  of 
no  ordinary  mould  among  those  townspeople,  the  hero  and  heroine  of  the  play 
— the  Mother  and  Son  of  the  story.  There  are  several  passions  at  work  in  the 
Drama — there  is  Bigotry  seeking  its  victim,  Christianity  borrowing  weapons 
from  Hell  to  circumvent  the  Devil — the  jealousy  of  the  lover  serving  God  and 
his  passion,  too,  at  the  same  time,  and  calling  Revenge — Religion — there  are 
petty  cowardice  and  curiosity,  but  far  above  them  all,  striking  a  root  in  nature 
deeper  even  than  the  miscalled  devotion  of  those  times,  the  relation  between  a 
mother  and  her  son — the  untaught  emotion  of  boyhood  rising  up  bolder  and 
stronger  than  the  inveterate  hardihood  and  selfish  hypocrisy  of  manhood.  By 
this  simple  element  of  strength  one  human  being  at  least  is  saved,  and  the  ex 
pedients  of  that  miserable  age  shattered  and  almost  driven  back  from  their 
strongholds. 

How  all  this  and  more  is  done  those  who  have  seen  or  will  soon  witness  this 

8* 


178  APPENDIX. 


tragedy,  will  be  at  no  loss  to  understand.  Mr.  Murdoch  is  labouring  to  a  pur« 
pose  and  with  the  author.  The  play  is  a  beautiful  example  of  development, 
All  is  elaborately  wrought  out,  the  details  are  numerous,  and  the  result  sim 
plicity. 

The  plot  is  simply  this.  A  proud  woaian  of  great  independence  and  superior 
education,  retires,  when  age  and  trouble  have  begun  to  set  their  marks  upon 
her,  to  the  comparative  solitude  of  Salem.  She  bore  trouble  in  her  heart,  was 
among  the  townspeople,  but  not  of  them,  loved  lonely  walks  on  the  hill  side, 
gathered  old  Indian  relics,  which  she  kept  out  of  reverence  for  the  past.  "The 
fee  grief  due  to  her  single  breast"  was  remorse  for  an  act  of  pride,  by  which 
her  nusband  had  fallen  in  a  duel.  A  word  from  her  might  have  prevented  the 
calamity,  and  she  had  not  spoken  it. 

With  such  elements,  and  the  material  the  meddlesome  town  naturally  afforded, 
and  the  vile  poison  of  witchcraft  already  introduced  into  the  land,  how  easily 
was  this  woman  implicated.  She  walked  alone  and  talked  much  with  herself — 
it  was  a  trick  of  witchcraft.  She  possessed  little  Indian  figures,  which  she 
"jailed  after  the  names  of  the  local  characters  of  the  town — the  magistrates  and 
constables,  whose  religion  was  to  be  set  at  work  either  through  fear  or  the  in 
sult — these  were  the  instruments  of  incantation,  like  the  waxen  images  of  an 
cient  necromancy.  She  laughed  at  the  folly  of  her  persecutors — it  was  of 
course  hardened  wickedness.  The  atmosphere  is  so  choking,  that  the  son  yields 
and  for  a  moment  believes  his  mother's  guilt,  but  when  he  listens  to  her  explana 
tion  of  the  silent  grief,  the  lonely  walks,  he  spurns  the  whole  brood  in  language 
and  acts  of  unmeasured  indignation.  This  is  the  triumph  of  the  actor,  as  well 
as  of  the  moral  element  in  the  fifth  act.  But  evil  men  have  had  their  counsel 
and  completed  their  deed.  The  Witch  is  condemned  to  die! 

"  Gideon.     The  deed  is  done !     Ruin  upon  a  sacred  head 
Is  piled,  and  ye  are  evermore  accursed — 
WThat  have  ye  done — thou  sepulchre  of  all  belief 

(T"o  Deacon  Gidney.*) 

And  truth,  stares  not  this  lie  you  have  enacted 
Stark  and  o'erw helming  as  a  dead  man's  face 
Against  your  path  !     What  have  ye  proven 
To  drive  this  penalty  against  a  venerable  breast1? 
Some  solitary  walks,  sacred  as  night, 
Familiar  love  for  hills  and  woods  and  fields, 
A  way  through  life  out  of  your  beaten  path 
But  ever  in  the  road  to  the  pure  Truth 
And  goodness  of  a  heart  troubled  too  much 
In  conscience  for  a  deed  that  would  have  been 
A  feather's  weight  upon  vour  brutish  souls. 

(To  the  People.) 

Ye  arc  the  most  accursed  deceivers, 
Most  pitiful  deluded  men,  this  clime 
Or  century  hath  hatched.     Ye  have  enfogged, 
Darkened,  and  led  astray  my  childish  love, 
Made  this  aged  mother  seem  a  horror  and  a  hag 
To  one,  who,  drop  by  drop,  would  once  have  died — and  will — 
To  save  or  serve  her !     Blasted  this  blest  place 
And  made  its  men  and  women  beasts  of  prey, 
Hunting  each  other  to  chains  and  flames  and  deaths. 

This  passage  tells  much  of  the  story.  There  are  other  incidents  and  person 
ages.  The  Deacon  is  strongly  marked,  so  is  that  feeble  little  shadow  of  him  and 
the  justice,  petty  officer  Pudeater.  The  Deacon  is  described 


APPENDIX.  179 


A  sturdy  gentleman  of  solemn  port, 

Whose  eyes  are  lobster- like  in  gaze,  whose  paunch 

Is  full  and  hungry  ever,  his  step 

Demure  and  confident  as  though  he  trod 

On  holy  pavements  always. 

The  little  official  is  the  type  of  timid,  obsequious  sextons,  who  hang  upon  the 
eyelids  of  the  vestry  and  the  clergyman,  or  any  in  authority.  He  always  ap 
pears  in  character,  and  is  sure  of  being  laughed  at.  He  bears  about  him  with 
the  best  grace  in  the  world  the  utmost  extent  of  the  ridiculous. 

As  a  specimen  of  the  dialogue,  we  give  the  first  scene  between  the  Deacon 
and  Ambla,  in  which  he  seeks  to  entrap  her. 

"  Deacon.     I  should  be  sorry  to  know  your  age  was  racked 
With  pains,  and  vexed  with  old  unquietness: 
Sleep  you  well  o'  nights  1 
Ambla.     I'm  thankful  for  the  rest 
I  find,  and  if  the  other  villagers  take 
What  I  lose  I'm  thankful  still. 

Deacon.     You  seek  your  bed 
Early,  I  hope,  as  doth  become  your  age. 

Ambla.     A  little  walk  on  Maple  Hill,  a  meditation 
At  the  down-falling  of  the  sun,  and  I 
Am  lapped  in  sleep. 

Deacon.     Dream  you  much  now, 
My  aged  friend — we  at  our  age,  that  is,  at  yours, 
Sometimes  forego  our  dreams. 
Ambla.     I  have  not  dreamed 
A  dream,  for  three  and  twenty  years, 
Except  awake. 

Deacon.     Was  there  no  vision  in  your  sleep  last  night  1 
You  heard  of  Margaret  Purdy's  death  at  Groton  1 
Her  spectre,  'tis  given  out,  passed  over  this  house 
Of  yours — in  a  white  flame  at  midnight. 

Ambla.     An  angel,  she,  to  honor  so  this  low 
Unworthy  roof! 

Deacon.     You  think  well,  then,  of  her,  do  you  7 
She  was  no  praying  woman,  I  am  told. 

Ambla.     There  is  a  silent  service,  sir,  I've  heard 
It  said,  keeps  up  its  worship  at  the  heart 
Although  the  lips  be  closed. 

Deacon.     What!  prayer  irregular  and  chance  begot ! 
Sad  orthodoxy  !     I,  Deacon  Perfect  Gidney, — 
A  humble  pattern  to  this  lowly  parish, 
Am  used  to  have  a  different  way — 
I  snuiT  my  candle  with  a  prayer, 
And  with  a  prayer  wind  up  my  watch, 
And  go  to  prayer  at  striking  of  the  clock, 
The  great  one,  my  learned  grandfather's  gift, 
In  the  Hall;  and' kindle  with  a  prayer 
My  morning  fire. 


This  is  compact  and  straightforward,  nothing  wanting,  nothing  superfluous. 
The  American  writer  who  can  sustain  five  acts  of  a  play  at  this  standard  is  an 
acquisition ! 


180  APPENDIX. 


The  scattered  poetic  beauties  of  single  lines  and  figures,  exercises  of  an  ori 
ginal  fancy,  are  numerous  and  always  aid  the  dramatic  element. 

Passages  like  the  following  are  sufficient  proofs  of  a  new  poet  and  dramatist 
somewhere  among  us. 

(A  Lover.') 

I  would  not  give  its  balmy  pains, 
For  calmest  health :  its  pangs  delicious, 
Troubles  full  of  joy,  wakenings  electrical 
At  dead  of  night,  its  dreams  by  day, 
These  are  its  bounties — 


(Gideon,  of  his  Mother.') 

With  what  a  smile  she  used,  when  shouting  to  her, 

I  came  back  from  my  first  childish  strayings 

To  the  woods — to  open  wide  her  garden  gate, 

Young  Salem's  first  of  gardens  tending, 

And  bring  me  in. 

Chief  was  she  in  her  majestical  mild  port 

Of  all  women ;  guide  to  the  lost  and  sad, 

Helper  to  all  poor  neighbourhood — 

Kindling  her  welcome  fire,  earliest 

In  this  lone  place,  for  wayfarers, 

Of  all  creeds,  all  colours,  and  all  climes. 


(A  son's  watchful  guardianship}. 

Yes,  yes — we  know  his  weapon 
Plays  about  that  low-roofed  house,  free 
And  familiar  as  the  breaking  day. 

(Gideon1  s  affection  for  his  mother.*) 

Ambla.     Be  calm,  my  son,  nor  love  me  too  much ! 

Gid.     Too  much !  the  universe  can  hold  it  not ! — 
When  from  your  hand  I  go,  I  die  a  death 
At  every  step ;  you  seem  to  hold  the  roof-tree 
With  your  arm,  to  hang  above  the  fields  and  whiten  them: 
Nor  could  I  through  the  noon-day  harvest  toil, 
Knew  I  your  lap  would  not  receive 
My  weary  head  when  night  draws  on. 
****** 

Gid.    Then  there's  calamity  at  hand  that  colors  everything. 

(No  evil  spirits  in  the  New  World). 

Believe  it  not ! 

Believe  it  not ! — Clear,  crystal  and  unstained, 
The  gracious  Power  upholds  this  round  of  Earth 
New  found  and  beautiful :  no  foul  nor  ugly  thing, 
Hath  power,  I'm  sure,  in  this  new  land — 
Goblin  nor  witch ! 


APPENDIX.  181 


He  sweeps  apast  me 
With  his  glittering  scythe  and  victor-arm. 


If  she  be  not,  and  these  are  hunters 
For  the  sport's  sake,  if  they  pursue  her, 
Panther-like  for  the  wild  beauty 
Of  her  ways. 

***** 
Though  I  could  see  an  hundred  witches 
'Gainst  the  white  moon  flying. 


(Ilie  Spirit  of  Witchcraft}. 

There  have  been  doings  dark  as  night, 
And  close  as  death :  murders  and  deadliest  crimes 
Which  the  clear  eye  of  day  has  seen  not ! 
Acts  to  outface  the  bloody  wolf,  and  scare 
The  ravenous  lion  with  liis  unajypcasable  mane! 
Night's  ear  hath  many  counsels  of  the  dark, 
She  hears  the  whispers  of  the  self- reproached, 
And  blacker  grows ! 

*  *     "        *  *  *  * 

When  boy  and  girl  pluck  flowers  together, 
Together  wade,  white-ankled  in  the  shining  stream. 


Crid,  (of  his  mother.^ 

Some  silent  place  will  miss  her ; 
Out  of  these  woods  and  from  these  stillnesses 
A  power  with  her  may  pass,  bearing  a  light  away ! 


Who  reverences  not  the  Past,  Hereafter 
Shall  not  reverence,  nor  hold  to  have  had 
A  present  time. 


MUST  is  a  lion  that  turns  back 
To  tear  its  driver,  you  know,  no  less  than  hunt 
What  goes  before. 


What  say  you  to  a  great-antlered  elk 
Tangling  his  horns  amid  the  branches 
Of  the  hemlock  wood  7  to  speckled  swimmers 
In  still- water  stream1? 


The  Earth  hath  foothold 
For  the  unsubstantial  dark  alone. 


182  APPENDIX. 


She  passes  and  with  th'  invisible  spirit  talks, 
And  dallies  with  the  hands  of  unfamiliar  things. 


Gid.     What  wonder  now  is  this 
Ambla.     Sometimes  it  wanders  the  wood,  sometimes 
The  free-flowered  air :  come  softly  on  ! — &c.  &c. 


From  the  Evening  Post,  New  York,  May  6th. 

THE  NEW  DRAMA  OP  WITCHCRAFT. — We  have  received  a  letter  from  a  cor 
respondent  in  Philadelphia,  touching  the  new  play  produced  in  that  city  on 
Monday  evening  last : 

PHILADELPHIA,  Tuesday,  May  5.  1846. 

Mr.  Murdoch's  ne-v  play  of  Witchcraft  was  performed  last  evening  at  the 
Walnut  street  theatre,  to  one  of  the  most  crowded  houses  of  the  season.  The  play 
had  been  prominently  announced  and  spoken  of  in  several  of  the  morning  papers, 
and  had  evidently  created  great  expectation  in  advance.  Tier  above  tier,  from 
the  orchestra  to  the  gallery,  rose  the  vast  surface  of  heads.  Here  we  thought 
was  the  material  to  try  fully  the  new  play.  If  it  could  hold  the  attention  of  this 
crowded  body,  it  would  be  a  success  far  beyond  the  approval  of  the  few  packed 
critical  friends  who  generally  attend  on  such  occasions.  The  critics  were  not 
wanting  either;  the  intellect  of  Philadelphia  was  well  represented  on  the  occa 
sion.  The  curtain  rose  on  a  woodland  scene  in  old  Salem,  and  presently  Mr. 
Murdoch  appeared  in  his  character  of  Gideon  Bodish.  He  was  never  dressed 
or  looked  to  greater  advantage  than  in  his  closelv  fitting  russet  coat ;  his  atti 
tudes  were  after  his  mariner  exceeding!}7  graceful,  his  voice  music  itself.  In 
scene  after  scene,  in  every  act,  he  drew  down  repeated  applause,  as  he  delivered 
one  passage  after  another  of  singular  poetic  beauty,  or  fierce  indignant  elo 
quence. 

It  was  evident  from  the  first  moment  that  the  play  was  wholly  unlike  the 
ordinary  efforts  under  the  name  of  the  "  American  Drama."  It  was  bold,  confi 
dent,  original  in  illustration,  and  in  the  incidents  arid  developments  of  the  plot. 
The  stage  situations  were  new.  The  confirmation  of  Gideon's  doubts  of  his 
mother's  guilt  of  witchcraft  at  the  crisis  of  the  play  by  a  species  of  sacred  divin 
ation,  an  augury  from  a  chance  opened  passage  of  the  Bible,  and  the  solemn 
introduction  of  a  child  to  confront  the  accused  in  the  grand  trial  scene,  as  they 
were  managed,  were  proofs  of  undoubted  genius  on  the  part  of  the  author. — 
The  play  was  sown  all  over  with  the  happiest  poetical  expressions,  not  merely 
in  the  leading  parts,  but  with  an  unaccustomed  prodigality  on  the  part  of  a 
modern  dramatist  were  thrown  away,  for  stage  purposes^  on  the  lips  even  of  the 
supernumeraries.  Take  such  lines  as  these  in  the  mouth  of  the  mother,  as  she 
solves  one  of  the  perplexities  of  the  piece  her  apparent  guilt;  not  that  of  witch 
craft,  but  the  life-long  remorse  for  the  murder  of  her  husband  in  a  duel,  whom 
she  might  have  saved  by  declaring  her  innocence,  which  she  was  too  proud  to 
prove : 

He  thought  that  I  had  sinned 
Against  his  love  with  that  gay  paramour, 
Who  was  no  more  than  birds  are  to  the  tree 
They  hover  o'er,  to  me  who  lived  in  mine 
Own  thoughts  above  suspicion's  climbing, 

or  this  illustration,  finely  delivered  by  Murdoch,  of  the  dark  silent  approach  of 
the  superstition  upon  the  soul — 


APPENDIX.  183 


The  night  sits  on  this  gloomy  heart — 

I  see  an  Indian  on  a  hill  top  standing, 

Part  of  the  silent  fixedness  of  things  ; 

He  breaks  the  mighty  calm,  wherein  he  stood 

Slow  striding  down  the  mountain's  side. 

Swifter  and  darker  as  he  nears  us  we  regard  him, 

Flashing  and  red,  woe's  living  thunder  cloud, 

And  now,  and  now,  he  bends  above  us — 

Dusk  murder  in  the  very  person  of  itself— 

So  creeps  this  hideous  witchcraft  on  me. 

Or  such  bits  of  description  as  the  following,  a  perfect  picture  in  the  limits  of  a 
sentence ; 

You  recollect  old  Tituba,  the  shrivelled  squaw, 
Who  wigwamed  gloomily  by  the  wood's  edge 
Some  summers  past — 

or  so  perfect  an  illustration  as  this  of  the  gathering  suspicions  of  his  mother's 
life  in  Gideon's  conversation — 

Ever  in  his  speech 

There  lived  and  moved  as  in  the  river  stream 
The  fish,  darkly  and  yet  swift  gliding 
Old  Ambla's  form, 

Yet  these  were  not  the  chief  merits,  but  accessories  only  to  the  dramatic  action ; 
they  never  came  to  interrupt,  but  to  aid  the  character  and  story.  The  longer 
single  passages,  or  any  just  exhibition  of  the  dialogue,  would  lead  me  beyond 
the  limits  of  a  letter. 

In  the  general  style  of  the  acting — leading  parts  were  taken  by  Mrs.  Wallack, 
our  old  favourite  Richings,  and  a  very  successful  comical  tipstaff  by  Chapman 
— and  especially  in  the  grouping  and  stage  appointments  no  American  play 
that  we  have  seen  has  appeared  to  equal  advantage.  The  scenery  had  been 
drawn  on  the  spot  at  Salem,  and  Mr.  Murdoch  had  been  accompanied  in  his 
researches  for  the  dress  and  costume  of  the  period  by  Rev.  Mr.  Upham,  the  au 
thor  of  a  book  on  the  Salem  Witchcraft.  The  bill  states  the  costumes  to  have 
been  "  taken  from  portraits,  paintings,  &c.  in  possession  of  the  Salem  Histori 
cal  Library  association."  The  Deacon,  a  Justice,  an  old  goodwife  were  admi 
rable. 

We  have  rarely  witnessed  a  performance  where  the  interest  excited  was  bet 
ter  sustained.  The  uproarious  elements  in  the  pit  and  galleries,  of  which  we 
were  fearful,  were  subdued  to  perfect  silence;  the  laugh  at  the  comic  characters, 
the  Deacon's  bloated  presumption  and  Chapman's  comicalities,  was  quickly 
changed  to  the  earnest  or  pathetic  as  Gideon  or  the  Mother  entered  the  scene. 
It  was  a  long  and  satisfactory  study.  At  the  close,  Mr.  Murdoch  was  loudly 
called  for,  made  a  short  speech  to  the  effect  that  he  rejoiced  in  the  warm  recep 
tion  he  had  received  that  evening ;  that  he  attributed  this  solely  to  the  merits 
of  the  unknown  American  author,  who  did  not  wish  to  be  known  as  a  dramatic 
writer,  and  for  whom  he  had  pledged  to  maintain,  and  would  strictly,  the  anon 
ymous. 


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